


Love's On The Line, Is That Your Final Answer?

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Jealousy, M/M, POV Harry, Pining, a little bit of, assumed unrequited feelings, in there too, mentions of recreational drug use, mutual dislike turns into i can't stop thinking about you at some point, probably some - Freeform, the game show itself is quite a small part tbh, there's a lot of feelings mixed with smut, updated 16/8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 53,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry can’t believe it when Louis, the boy he’s always had a tempestuous rivalry with, asks him to be his boyfriend. Well, pose as his boyfriend, that is—for a new television game show in which young couples are quizzed on how well they know each other for a jackpot of thirty grand.</p><p>Reluctantly, Harry agrees—because he's got student loans to pay off, hasn't he? What's the harm? And he can totally deal with keeping his secret thing for Louis under wraps too. This is all just to win some money. It's fine. No big deal. What could possibly go wrong?</p><p>Well, everything. Obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooo :)
> 
> Okay, so here I am with another longish one shot! (Actually, I'm going to post it in two parts now).
> 
> I snagged the show premise from a British game show called 'Mr and Mrs' but that's far too heteronormative so I think it should actually be called 'How Well Do You Know Your Spouse' and let's be real, Harry and Louis would ace the questions about each other without trying in real life, but I needed obstacles if I wanted to turn it into an au story and so this fic was born in the shape of a trusty fake dating au :)
> 
> I hope it reads okay and isn't too disappointing where this trope is concerned! Please forgive any mistakes. I tried my best to proof read but I probably missed some. (I'll go back through it.)
> 
> Anyway, I hope it's decent and not garbage, heh. And obviously this is fictional, friends. *peace sign*
> 
> Title taken from 'Hear Me Out' by Frou Frou.

 

It’s approaching half past eight and the pub is heaving.

Aglow with warm ambers, burgundies and chestnut hues, Harry sits in their favourite spot, head a tad fuzzy after a long day of sifting through Victorian fiction, and searing his gaze into the backs of a couple’s heads, who were sitting in front of him for the class’ entirety. They were basically bundled together and stuck to each other's side with an overbearing amount of hairspray and sticky hair products. The perfect prim and preppy couple. Immaculate and sleek and sophisticated. However, despite picking out seats quite near the front of class for all to see, the pair still had no qualms about being publicly, nauseatingly in love as they exchanged quick, subtle pecks to each other's chapstick lips, (yeah, he's pretty sure the guy was wearing it, too, lips far too rosy to be natural), and held hands atop their empty notebooks (Harry frowned at their lack of note taking in favour of trying to subtly neck each other in class), their thumbs caressing each other’s wrists as their tutor read aloud extracts from one of their lengthy assigned texts.

Meanwhile, Harry wanted to smack himself over the head with it. It was a sickening display. One that, quite frankly, made Harry's stomach churn on more than one occasion. And also, he apparently, was the only person who'd noticed this blatant disregard for their further education. 

Oh, who is he kidding?

Harry couldn't keep his nosy, prying eyes off them.

Because he is an utterly unabashed romantic soul with an intense jealous streak, and Harry is very much unsatisfied, and very much displeased with the state of his non-existent love life at this current point in time.

So, yeah, okay. That's probably the reason for his unprovoked resentment towards a harmlessly sweet couple.

But see, Harry just isn’t built to be single. He isn't. He doesn't want a string of casual one-off's, never to be seen again (not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. It's just not Harry's thing). He’s the type who wants something more permanent. A proper relationship. A long-term commitment. Completely monogamous, unconditional, soul-consuming love.

Who cares if statistics say it’s not realistic?

Harry’s time will come, he’s sure of it. He’s only recently turned twenty-one after all, so he’s hardly running out of time yet, is he?

Still, though. Harry never said he was a patient guy.  

Harry longs for the day he can come home to someone who loves the bones of him. Someone who accepts each and every one of his flaws and quirks and appallingly bad jokes. To have someone to look after, and someone to look after him. To cook for, maybe, (because Harry is an excellent cook, if he does say so himself) to cuddle and mould his body to as they snuggle up in bed, murmuring sweet nothings and whispering future hopes and plans under the covers.

Harry wants someone to ask him about his day, or hold his hand whenever he feels like it. Someone to press him into the mattress and someone to worship with deep, extensive kisses, getting lost in someone so completely that neither knows where each of their bodies begins and ends, because they’re so entangled, so wrapped up in the other.

Sigh.

No, Harry hasn’t given this much thought at all. Romance just perpetually courses through his veins, keeps his heart pumping, and gets him through the sad, lonely nights, that’s all. It's not that pathetic, is it? Everyone should have some kind of hope or faith in love, right?

And if not?

Well, then. Harry will just have to hold all the hope and confidence and belief in love for the rest of them, won’t he? He'll become Earth's very own human, overgrown Cupid. Fully clothed, obviously. He likes being naked, but he's not a complete nutter that he'd prance around in a damn nappy.

Yeah. So. That got weird there.

So, anyway, Harry’s currently sitting at the table which he snagged in record time, having already got the drinks in and settled down, waiting for the boys to arrive. It's a more secluded corner of the room which Harry likes—an assortment of powdery russet and smoky topaz bricks, and hefty logs and coal making up the traditional fireplace, appropriately placed between the crimson curtained window and the bar—which is currently crowded with a mixture of stoic, bright-eyed, preppy clad students. It's essentially a sea of crisp patterned shirts, buttoned up at the collar, along with a cluster of hairspray soaked, fancy hairdos, thrilly cotton jumpers, worn suede jackets and shiny leather shoes.

Ageing nautical ornaments and other sea themed pieces are strewn about the pub’s space, and seventeenth century oil paintings hang from the maroon painted, wooden framed walls, long and thick beams holding up the ceiling. And it's all comfortably familiar to Harry—a bit pretentious, like, but the setting is so quintessentially English. Drifting scents of heavy floral perfumes, clean aftershaves and the remnants of cigarette smoke fester in the cosy atmosphere as the Arctic Monkeys' sensual beats erratically strum in the background, mostly drowned out by the increasing volume of animated laughter, jumbled voices and friendly conversations.

And it’s home to Harry. 

But Harry's been patiently waiting for the boys to get here for well over thirty-five minutes now, and he's starting to become officially pissed off, as well as acquiring the heavy onset of a headache.

Of course he gets that everyone's busy these days with this and that; they’ve got work, undergrad reading to do, and post-grad dissertations to get on with, but the least his friends could do is call or text to say they're going to be late.

Or at this rate, let him know they're not even coming at all.

Honestly. 

Harry feels like a right loner, sitting here at a table meant for at least four people, the drinks already paid for and waiting atop the sticky, burgundy wooden surface, as he impatiently drums his ringed fingers against it, checking his phone every five seconds, and he can feel a scowl forming when at _last_ , Liam and Niall stroll through the doors—

With none other than Louis Tomlinson sandwiched between them, looking as self-satisfied, slightly sinister... and as deliciously attractive as ever.

Which is wildly unfair.

Harry doesn't deserve this disloyalty from his friends (who have been extremely persistent with inviting Louis to just about every meet up recently) or these enticing cues to sin with the spawn of the Disney version of Hades. He's a good person, okay? Harry really shouldn’t have to deal with this internal struggle.

(It’s bad for his skin, all this frowning, and now he’s going to have to purchase an expensive anti-ageing cream. Cheers, Louis Tomlinson, you menace to society’s skin care.)

(That made no sense. Louis fries his brain.)

He also should probably mention the fact that Louis and Harry do not get on. Like. At. All.

Everything's weird.

"Sorry, we're late, Harry," Liam instantly apologises upon their late arrival, hazel brown eyes warm and guilt-ridden—because Liam Payne is an actual human teddy bear stuffed to the brim with sentimental emotion and good intentions—even if they often fail drastically. Bless him. Harry is so, so fond of him and is pleased when he takes a seat next to Harry, sweeping an affectionate hand over Harry's cream lace covered back. It's one of his favourite shirts, and also his 'game shirt' when he's looking to pull. But now with Louis here cramping his style, it's looking very unlikely he's going to attract many handsome males. Louis'd ward off anyone who came over with a poisonous glare, or snag them for himself instead.

Because he wants Harry to suffer for eternity apparently.

It drives Harry up the wall. Especially as it's getting to be more of a frequent habit. He could strangle Louis at times. (Or, let’s be real—he always wants to.)

"Oh, goody," Harry mocks excitement, sarcastically clapping his hands together and plastering a grin to his face. "You brought my favourite person in the  _whole_  world!"

Harry's exaggerated grin falls into a glare as Louis' gaze immediately connects with his, whose peach tinted lips are minutely quirked in the corners, threatening to release a snigger as he pulls out a chair. (He does make a repulsive noise in the back of his throat though.)

Liam sighs heavily. “We’ve not started already, have we? I do actually need this drink, you know. I didn't come here to play mediator between your cat fights," he mutters.

Louis ignores him, attention still on Harry. “How do you do?” Louis greets wryly, the words sliding slowly, smoothly off his tongue. “Fuckface,” he tacks on the end as he plonks himself down onto the chair directly opposite from Harry, already reaching for one of the four pints.

Harry watches Louis sigh exaggeratedly, a sour expression forming on those sharp, chiselled features of his. Great. Harry doesn't much like tolerating Louis at the best of times, but a grumpy Louis is an even worse presence to deal with. A severely grumpy Louis, however, is when you need to get the hell out of the surrounding the area fast, whether you’re in the firing line or not, or else risk an actual punch to the face (attempted, at least. He's a poor shot considering he's so tiny and delicate. Harry would break him if he ever tried. Not that Harry ever has, or would ever hit anyone in his life).

Harry rolls his eyes. “Fine, darling. How are you?” he retorts, ensuring his tone is reeking with sarcasm, half-itching to just get up and leave out of spite.

"Amazing. Thanks for asking, baby cakes," Louis replies, raspy and deliberate, eyes now on the bar, probably seeking out his next conquest or something. Everyone's so bloody in love with him. Harry's lucky he got a reply to be honest. Most of the time when he's in one of his moods, Louis will either give him stony silence or spit unwarranted insult after insult. It's highly unpleasant to listen to as Louis will grow steadily more indignant and hysterical as time wears on.

He hopes this isn't one of those nights, or he definitely will leave, bed calling to him and his laptop paused on repeats of Gogglebox.

Harry glares.

Louis smirks.

“So what took you so long?” Harry frowns, turning his attention to his actual mate. Liam. “You could have called? Where are your manners? I'm surprised at you, Liam," he pouts.

Liam has the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry, sunshine. We were picking up this one." Liam shoots a quick disapproving look Louis' way, who pays no mind, merely kicks his feet up on the currently empty fourth chair. "Took bloody forever to leave the shower, and then spent an eternity on his hair. Thought we were never going to get out of there."

Louis makes an indignant noise. "This is careful work, Lima," Louis chides, whipping his head round and scowling as his delicate fingers fix and swipe at his fluffy fringe. It’s oddly tantalizingly to watch, which only serves to make Harry glare harder. "Just because you're losing yours, doesn't mean you can pick on mine."

"I've got plenty of hair, thanks," Liam mumbles, lips forming into a wounded pout, as he gingerly smoothes a hand over his rock solid, gelled quiff. He's overdone it a bit.

"I beg to differ. You'll be needing a hair transplant by the time you're thirty," Louis teases, his previously sullen face having switched to delighted by Liam's put out expression.

Harry watches this exchange, feeling the corners of his mouth minutely pulling upwards against his will. And no. Nope. Louis isn't even that funny. He will not show weakness. He won't give Louis any more attention than he deserves, so he hastily diverts his gaze. Where's Niall, anyway?

He spots him at the bar.

“Niall, I’ve already got us drinks?” Harry calls, brows knitting infinitesimally.

Niall looks over instantly despite the noise decibels. "Oh, I know,” Niall shrugs, smiling. “Cheers, mate,” he grins, full out, and passes a glass of white wine to the pretty blonde girl standing next to him, the two laughing animatedly, her hair in artful disarray, as Niall works on winning over the rest of the cramped, chic and product drenched bodies that line the front of the bar. No doubt using his Irish charm, sprinkling it like stardust in buckets over the perfectly coiffed and styled student heads. He hands the bartender a tenner, who’s appearing just as taken with him as the many girls, grinning with a chuckle Harry can’t hear over the music.

Harry rolls his eyes fondly at Niall’s ability to make friends within seconds—namely pretty blondes with alluring smiles and middle aged men.

“Mr Irish over there works fast, doesn’t he?” Louis comments, taking a large sip of his pint, gesturing with his thumb. Harry stares at the way the frothy, dark amber liquid makes Louis’ throat work, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows heartily, and pointedly forces his gaze to look elsewhere when he realises he’s staring with his mouth slightly open.

Oh, God. 

He meets Liam’s amused gaze, who's got one eyebrow raised knowingly as he presses his lips together to suppress a laugh. Liam's been doing that a lot lately. It's bloody irritating. “You alright there, Harry? You look a bit peaky,” Liam smirks. "Are you feeling sick?" he smirks again.

Yes, actually.

Harry shoots him a warning look that says  _shut up now or face the fatal consequences_ , even though Harry is pretty certain that ever since their one night of ‘brief grinding' (because yes, Harry is ashamed to admit he caved one reckless night and was ready to sleep with the enemy), Louis has no intentions of ever repeating the incident.

And what’s worse is Louis knows Harry’s still hot for him.

Which is mortifying.

And what's even more horrendously embarrassing is that if Louis asked right now to take him home and ravish him all night long?

Well. Harry wouldn’t say no.

(Definitely wouldn’t say no.)

(He hates himself.)

And Louis subtly teases him about it relentlessly with his taunting, suggestive comments, and his mocking, stunningly blue eyes, and his goddamn lip biting, and sinful curves which really do not help matters at all.

And those are the good days.

On the bad days, Harry actually fears for his life. Like, what is Harry supposed to think when more often than not, he meets Louis’ gaze and there he is, glowering in the corner with a face that says he wants to kill Harry, but still he sits there, looking unfairly pretty and like he might want to attack Harry’s neck with hungry kisses.

It's cruel to taunt Harry with the antithesis of Harry's outlook on life. Which takes on the form of a devilishly handsome, petite but curvaceous, caramel dusted boy made of starlight. It's beyond cruel of the universe to be honest. 

Why couldn’t it have been anyone else?

But no. It had to be Louis Tomlinson, who has always been impossible to work out—what with him always obsessed with getting one up on Harry ever since he’s known him.

Even as far back as secondary school on the pitch in P.E, Louis always had to have to the last word, was always better at playing football, better at making friends, better at getting the leads in school musicals, better at everything, really, and Louis would do it all effortlessly with an infuriating, crinkly-eyed grin perpetually plastered to his face.

Harry severely disliked him (and it was mutual), but also simultaneously, excruciatingly...fancied the pants off him.

(That certainly wasn't mutual. Harry's 98% sure.)

His treacherous heart needs a damn talking to. Or his sexual organs, rather. Damn them. Because he  _still_  fancies him.

Louis’ still fucking annoying, don’t get him wrong—he can't stand the guy, but Harry can admit that Louis is extremely aesthetically pleasing. Only the attraction he feels has got steadily worse as the years have gone by, much to Harry's horror, because Louis seems to get fitter every bloody year.

Louis could call him a curly haired cunt to his face (he did one time) and Harry would still get an immediate boner. (He got a boner that time too. Harry had to escape the showers and quickly get himself off in the changing rooms to get rid of it, while he could hear the hysterical cackles going on next door.)

(It was the most stressful wank he’s ever had.)

(He couldn’t look Louis in the eye the following day.)

(Those were dark times.)

(Embarrassing, pitiful times.)

See, the two of them have always had a rather tumultuous, confusing relationship.

Particularly as they've got older. _Especially_  as they've got older. What started as Louis and Harry bickering in P.E. lessons in Year Seven, turned into Louis purposely trying to embarrass him during swimming lessons in Year Nine (because his trunks were a bit too tight and therefore revealed  _everything_ ), to relentlessly trying to prank him when they hit the showers after football practice throughout Year Eleven. (Shower time was a particularly awkward situation). 

And once they turned sixteen, the pranks then ranged from hiding and stealing his clothes completely (which, how original), to filling his gym bag with shaving cream, to setting up water balloons to explode on his head when he opened the changing room door, to when he’d shoved fucking stacks of condoms inside his locker on one of the last days of school.

Harry went beetroot red, mortified—and discreetly kept a few for himself.

Which brings Harry to the almost use of those condoms he sneakily tucked away in the pockets of his school trousers... 

Harry was seventeen, awkward and had gangly limbs and slightly round cheeks. He’d been at college for exactly four months before he realised Louis had enrolled to the same exact college, and because they’d taken opposite A Level subjects, they hadn’t seen each other around. Until one afternoon, when Harry had finished his four p.m. Law class, walked into the corridor, and smacked right into a shorter body that belonged to  _Louis_ of all people, bewildered to see him until those cerulean blue eyes of his narrowed, then quickly turned into hysterical laughter.

“Oh, my God!" Louis laughed. "Styles? What are you doing here?” he said, eyebrows shooting up.

Harry’s first thought was that he’d changed his hair. It was no longer a straight bowl of a hairdo, it was more of a pixie cut—which fit because he was an evil little pixie anyway—and he had a styled fringe and obviously wore a lot more product in it now, but it still looked pleasantly soft. Harry’s fingers had itched to run through it. Yeah, so he still had a pesky crush.

A traitorous, unwanted crush that Harry had just not been able to shake off since he was eleven, when he’d first laid eyes on Louis’s glowing, compact pixie form, and fallen into lust at first sight.

Until he opened that pretty mouth of his, that is.

“Um...I go here?" Harry blinked, just as shocked to see him. Louis found it funny for some reason.

It absolutely was not funny.

All Harry could think was: SHIT.

“Really? God, we left school thinking we were finally rid of each other and yet here we are again,” Louis said, highly amused, a grin plastered to his face. It was a mischievous grin though, not a happy one.

Some things never changed. Harry thought he was probably planning on what new, more outrageous, more humiliating pranks he could pull on him now they were college students instead.

Harry had dread to think.

“Here I am,” Harry deadpanned, displeased to see him, though his quickly tightening jeans told the opposite story. Fuck, it was humiliating. Shameful. Why him? Why did this happen every fucking time? He only had to stare at Louis for no longer than five seconds in total and he’d start to get hard.

They stared at each other for a few long, painfully silent moments, and Harry knew there was only one way this mortifying thing would stop happening.

Harry simply  _had_ to get Louis Tomlinson out of his system.

And of course, there was only one obvious way to do that: they needed to have sex.

Which was a problem, because Louis found Harry as insufferable as he found him, if not more. But when Harry looked down _there,_ he was stunned to find Louis was just as tight in his own jeans, which were red and rolled up at the ankles, and  _fuck_ , Louis’  _ankles._ They were just gorgeous, petite and golden and...

Louis licked his lips, biting his bottom one a second later.

Oh, fuck.

Harry  _really_ needed to sort out this Louis situation. Like, as soon as possible, or Harry would be haunted by this maddening, ethereal creature for as long as he lived.

It was a problem, and it needed to be solved. One time. Just once. That’s all he needed. 

“I see your hair’s gotten even curlier,” Louis said, face unreadable. “You’ve leaned out. Got taller since last year, too.”

“Um...thanks? I guess you look more tanned,” he’d said. “Been on holiday recently?” Because he did. His skin was the tone of smooth caramel and Harry just wanted to _lick_ it.

“Nah. I guess I just spent a lot of time in the sun over the summer.”

“Oh. Well, I like your new hair,” he said lamely. It was pitiful on all counts.

“Thanks. Yours makes you look like a twat.”

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. That didn’t take long.

Louis’ lips twitched upwards. “Erm...I’m having a party later tonight. You should come,” Louis said casually. Which was fucking weird, because he sounded serious.

“Really?” Harry asked, dubious, brows furrowed. 

“Yeah,” he said. “My mum, stepdad and my sisters are going to see my nan for the weekend. Mum said I didn’t have to go this time, so I intend to take full advantage of an empty house,” he smirked.

“Should you really be doing that? What if it gets trashed?”

“Nah, it won't. And if we do make a mess, as long as I tidy up thoroughly before she gets home, they’ll be no harm done, will there?"

“Suppose not.”

Louis stared at him. It was unnerving, the way his eyes seemed to be raking over him, up and down. “So?"

"So..." Harry drawled.

"Are are you coming then?"

Louis' stare was expectant, a tad hopeful, even? And it weirded Harry the fuck out as he waited for him to tip a disgusting concoction over his head or something, or expose his dick by pulling his trousers down. Anything.

But nothing happened.

Harry had frowned, extremely confused by the encounter.

But this was likely also going to be the only opportunity Harry had to make something happen between them—he could forget about Louis and his blue eyes and his caramel skin once and for all, and so he said yes, completely failing at imitating Louis' easy nonchalance, coming off as completely desperate instead.

Louis chuckled, grinning like the sinister pixie king he was. “Okay, then. Still got the same phone number?”

Harry nodded. Louis only ever used it to prank call him at ungodly hours in the mornings. He's dedicated. He'll give him that.

“I’ll text you my address later then. It starts at eight,” he said, already walking away in those sinful, tight red jeans.

“Unless you've moved house, I do remember where you live, Louis!” Harry called after him.

“Oh, okay! Well, see you later then Curly Pants!” Louis called back, and he was gone.

It was all so fucking strange. It was such a puzzling, amiable reunion that Harry was convinced it was a ploy, that Louis’d only invited him to humiliate him some more, pick up where they left off and make up for the precious lost time he would have spent making Harry’s life an Embarrassing Misery: Part Two.

Except.

It wasn’t like that, at all.

Because as soon as Harry arrived, Louis made a beeline for him, sticking to his side all night, showering him with copious amounts of drinks and it was....  _alright_. Harry was actually having fun with him.

Which was so wrong. Louis was the enemy. They were rivals. He'd teased him for years, but it felt...  _good._  It felt nice, even. Almost like they should have been friends since day one. Which was a most disconcerting thought, but one a drunk Harry didn’t mind all that much.

The night went on and they were both getting pissed out of their minds, dopily passing a spliff between them, and giggling like hyena children. Louis had clung to Harry's waist like a koala bear, and Harry was all too obliging to accommodate him, getting used to the feel of Louis' body heat engulfing his midriff, his own hand sliding up the back of Louis’ t-shirt and caressing the smooth skin there.

Then miraculously, at some point, Louis had leaned in, impossibly close to Harry's drunkenly flushed face, and Harry gazed back, caught on a breath. Both were breathing heavily against each other's mouths one second with locked glazed eyes, and in the next they were practically eating each other's faces off, panting frantically as possessive hands gripped and pulled and pushed at the other boy. He was like a drug. Louis was like a drug. He tasted him in that moment, and he wanted him. All of him. All the time.

Louis had dragged Harry to the bathroom, almost tripping up the stairs in their lust filled haste and killing themselves in the process, and slammed Harry's back against the bathroom door. Louis groaned, caging Harry in. “You drive me fucking crazy,” Louis almost growled against Harry’s stunned mouth, which was hanging open at this point, irritatingly craving Louis' mouth back on his, and he stared, unblinking at Louis’ blue, blue eyes that gazed steadily back at him. "Why do you always have to make me so fucking crazy? I don't get it," he whined.

“Well, you're fucking infuriating,” Harry frowned, but there was no heat behind it this time. The only heat present was the feeling of  _want_ wriggling throughout his body, unable to think past anything more than _I want him, I want him, I want him._

“I hate you,” Louis said, looking him dead in the eye, then down at Harry's agape mouth.

Harry scoffed. “Not as much as I hate you, love.”

Louis turned the lock and kissed Harry stupid. Hot, damp lips sucked and pressed and swallowed every tiny whimper in the back of Harry’s throat. Burning hands roamed under shirts and Harry helplessly clasped at Louis’ back in an effort to keep upright, because what the hell was happening? Was this really happening?

Harry thought he’d had to at least get  _some_  convincing in. But whether it was because they were drunk, or high, or sexually frustrated, or all three, Louis seemed as desperate as he was, seeking friction with firm rolls of his hips against Harry’s almost fully hard length, straining uncomfortably against the zip of his jeans. The Subways' ' _Rock & Roll Queen'  _thumped downstairs as it blasted out of Louis' massive speakers in his living room. Louis slid his tongue over the roof of Harry's mouth and keened, pressing even closer to Harry's dizzyingly hard crotch. Harry started to rotate his hips in frantic movements, Louis’ bum in his hands, panting loudly in Louis' ear, whose tongue was sliding over the nape of his neck, planting searing kisses to his skin as Harry's head lolled to the side.

Somehow they ended up moving over to the bathtub and clumsily tumbled in. Harry let out a guttural groan when Louis bit down on his neck, working on a humdinger of a love bite, but abruptly banged his head on the wall behind him, startled when insistent knocking on the bathroom door interrupted them in the middle of some vigorous grinding.

And that was the end of that.

Harry had made eye contact with Louis on the Monday afterwards, but Louis passed him in the corridor with nothing more than a blank stare.

Harry was crushed.

And neither of them mentioned the kissing, or the grinding, or the fact that they'd very nearly come in their pants in Louis' bathtub while trying to get each other off ever again.

Which was fine.

Harry was only upset for like, a day. (One spent moping in his bed after college all evening. But no one needs to know about that pathetic episode). It would have been a mistake anyway. They didn't even like each other. They weren't friends. They never had been.

But the rest of their time at college was surprisingly prankless, and even more surprisingly, Louis often started to spend a lot of his free time with Liam and Niall, even when Harry was around—but Harry and Louis would still always end up arguing over stupid shit, and most of their sentences began with ‘Oi, dickhead’ and ended in ‘fuck you’, and a few times they'd had quite aggressive tussles—though it was mainly just some angry rolling around on the muddy football pitch, shoving and swearing viciously at the other.

Sometimes, Harry'd catch Louis staring at him in the hallway, or the cafeteria, or when they were all hanging out together at the pub.

And yet, still, neither of them have dared to explicitly mention their almost hook-up since. It’s like the whole thing is so off limits to speak about, that somehow if it  _were_  brought up and spoken aloud, it would be like saying ‘Voldemort’ and a circle of death eaters would appear around them to take them to their grisly ends.

So yeah. Things are awkward. And weird. Perpetually so.

“Ab-so-lute-ly peachy," Harry replies, deliberately enunciating each syllable, bringing his own glass to his lips, feeling Louis’ eyes on him.

Finally, Niall comes to sit down with the rest of them and ruffles Louis’ hair a bit, which is styled messily, his fringe swept over to one side. Louis tilts his head up and gives Niall a murderous glare but Niall merely chuckles and pecks his cheek. Louis curls into himself more as Niall knocks down Louis’ feet and Louis brings his knees up to his chest, looking like a very small, disgruntled hedgehog. He’s certainly prickly enough to be one.

“Haz,” Niall greets, proffering his hand for a fist bump. Harry returns it with a fond smile.  

“Well, you’re certainly very popular up there. Quite the number of admirers you’ve got,” Harry grins. “Pray tell, Niall, how do you manage to gather such attention?”

He’s constantly got pretty girls (and boys to be honest) hanging off of every limb, every Irish boom of his voice, and every clump of that peroxide blonde hair.

Meanwhile, Harry has a grand total of zero admirers.

Niall shrugs, beaming full and glowing like sunshine. “Eh, I dunno. No bullshit? Pizza at hers, a round of golf, maybe, or take her to a gig and have a beer, and end with ravishing her on the sofa. I’m just myself, no mind games or messy bullshit. Be upfront. Have some fun with them and make sure they have enough cab money for the ride home,” he shrugs again, taking a large swig of his pint. “Worked with Fiona up there, anyway,” he laughs, sunny and genuine. He gives her a wave, and she smiles confidently, perfectly poised, returning the wave. Niall and the endless casual sex he engages in and his ability to stay perfectly loveable at the same time, drama-free, astounds Harry. Niall literally is a God.

“Wow, you really know how to treat a lady, Mr Love Guru,” Louis snorts, removing his feet so Niall can sit down. Niall just laughs good-naturedly, pale cheeks gone ruddy and grin easy, about to shoot back a witty reply when Harry butts in for him.

“Hey. He says he’s upfront about what he’s looking for?” Harry defends. “What’s your problem? Like you’d do much better anyway,” Harry scoffs, brows furrowed, annoyed.

“How would you know?” Louis accuses.

“Because I know you,” Harry says simply, shrugging as he chugs back his pint and wipes off the remnants of foam off his lips. He catches Louis tracking the movement and smirks, pleased.

“You don’t have a clue what I’d be like as a boyfriend, Styles,” Louis says after a beat, staring at Harry with determined, narrowed blue eyes.

“I know you better than you think.”

“Oh, you reckon?”

“Yeah, I reckon.”

Louis practically spits when he laughs, blowing a raspberry between his lips. “Yeah, right. Course you do.”

“You forget I have over a decade of experience with your hissy fits and your bad temper and your unbelievably juvenile, relentless pranks that I had to put up with throughout high school.”

“Oh, please," he groans. "Are you still on about those? Get off your high horse, Styles. Are you really so perfect? No, you’re not,” Louis scowls, bringing his pint to his lips again. They’re glistening and red and fuck Harry’s life. He can’t stand Louis and yet he never succeeds in keeping his pull to him under wraps. He wants to punch him and wreck him with his mouth at the same time. Leave a trail of love bites down his neck and listen to his high-pitched whimpers as he palms him through his jeans and—

Not this again. Jesus Christ.

Harry glares aggressively hard at Louis, hoping if he does it hard enough he’ll be able let their mutual dislike extinguish their inconvenient attraction for each other.

Or maybe it’s just Harry who needs to sort that out.

Louis doesn’t really seem that into him these days. He’s become increasingly petulant in Harry’s presence, not that he’s ever not been, but it’s impossible to tell with Louis, who throws a stream of verbal abuse his way, but then sometimes gets this hungry look in his eyes, a look that Harry can’t make his mind up about.

Does he want him or not?

Because it’s sort of the same expression he gave him that night, full of lust and want and burning desire. The only time he ever realised Louis was even attracted to him too was when he had his tongue down his throat.

And yeah, sometimes Harry thinks Louis might go for it again, might want to sleep with him just the one time and pretend it never happened afterwards.

But then other times, other unsettling times, Harry thinks that if it were to finally happen, he might not be able to have it only the once. He might want it all the time if that bridge is crossed. It’s a scary, alarming thought, pushed away by the annoying scowl on Louis’ face.

“No, of course I’m not perfect, but at least I’m not some self-obsessed wanker who just won’t grow up,” Harry grumbles, still glaring. It’s working. The glaring. Wiping the craving away and replacing it with loathing instead. It’s a good plan. He’ll just continue glaring at Louis until he no longer wants to fuck him.

That’ll work, right?

And maybe Louis can put a paper bag over his ridiculously pretty face, too.

Then he’ll be fine. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis dismisses, shaking his head and fixing his fringe again distractedly. His head does a little flick and Harry internally groans, grimacing because on rare occasions, even when he’s an irritating, grumpy sod, Louis still manages to look fucking cute. His mannerisms are just so delicate, and assured (he’d never say this to Louis unless he wants his head on a spike), and he’s so compact and petite that every so often, Harry thinks he’d very much like to card his fingers through Louis’ soft, product free hair and perhaps spoon him from behind, or maybe Harry’d like to be the little spoon... he’s not sure. He thinks Louis would prefer to be the big spoon though...

And what the actual fuck is he talking about?  _Spooning_?

“Wow, what a comeback that was. And the award for the most unoriginal insult in existence goes to... Louis Tomlinson! Round of applause for the dickhead, everyone!” Harry mocks, rather loudly too, more than a few heads turning to look at the commotion that Harry is stirring.

“Why am I even sitting with you? You’re a waste of me breath.”

“Feel free to leave then. In fact, I encourage it,” Harry grins, not kindly.

Louis glares. Daggers are thrown his way. Harry’s sure one has metaphorically hit him right in the head. There’s blood everywhere. An ambulance is needed.

“Alright, calm down, you two. Please, just pack it in,” Liam scolds, face palming.

“Yeah, Jesus Christ. Either get on with it and finally fuck each other or shut the fuck up. You’re embarrassing us,” Niall frowns, as he wraps an arm around Liam’s shoulders, who is crossing his own arms, expression peeved.

The things they put their friends through. Harry apologises with his best pair of puppy eyes, feeling Louis’ furious stare blaze his skin. Which, whatever.

“I’m getting another drink,” Louis snaps, as he skulks over to the bar, instantly gaining the attentions of a preppy student with golden hair. His navy blazer looks like a kid’s school uniform, a black button up underneath, done up at the collar, and he’s smiling charmingly down at Louis with too much teeth and with very distinct desire in his eyes, and Harry’s suddenly amnesic about why it is he’s so irritated by Louis.

Because all he’s aware of is how much he wants this other guy out of Louis’ proximity.

So Harry forces himself to go back to his pint, gulps it down, and definitely does not glance up at the scene before him from the rim of his glass, not even when he sees Louis leave with Preppy Golden Hair out of his peripherals minutes later.

**

It’s a subdued Tuesday morning, and the air smells like autumn, and the faint drizzle has caused Harry’s hair to frizz as he strolls through the courtyard and makes his way to the library.

He enters feeling sated and warm in the familiar claret and auburn confines of the university library, cold and ruddied cheeks immediately cooling as the distinct aroma of newly bought coffee, and the sterile and earthy scents of both freshly bought and decades-old books line the multiple shelves, filling his lungs. Harry manages to find a secluded spot at the back of the library, a quiet corner with a single desk facing the large, bright window, overlooking the courtyard, bright flowers bordering the well kept garden, despite the grey and gloom outside and gets on with his work.

He’s currently in the middle of tall stacks of books sprawled out on the mahogany wooden desk’s surface, pen gripped tightly in his ringed, now slightly sore hand, dutifully jotting down relevant and key notes for his comparative, romantic poetry essay.

It’s due in three days, and he’s not even half way through his plan, which mainly consists of a few half-baked ideas in bullet point form. But Harry loves romance so it’s not too much of a hardship to get writing about, feeling comfortably prepared, anyway, with the amount of source material he has to discuss.

That is, until, he unfortunately catches a glimpse of a wild Louis Tomlinson in his peripherals, appearing decidedly confused at his surroundings, but he looks  _good_  (god damn it), really good, as though he’s going somewhere nice after this, dressed in a washed out, ebony denim jacket with a beige fur collar and skin tight, black jeggings, paired with a smart pair of laced brown shoes.

Their eyes connect from where Louis is standing at a bookcase, actually holding a book (which is bizarre in itself), and a smirk teases Louis’ pursed lips, his hair a purposefully dishevelled halo of dirty bronze, and he sweeps his fringe delicately over his forehead.

He stares like a calculating evil cat, strolling over with his hips swaying in a way that has Harry glaring, because he’s so fucking doing this on purpose, and closing the short distance between them.

“Why, Harold, fancy seeing you here,” he grins deviously, the deceitful, fucking stunning bastard.

“I’m always here,” Harry deadpans. “Because, you know, some of us actually need to study and work for their grades? To get a degree and all that, since we are at  _university,_  Louis.”

“Yes, I am aware," he snips. "I’m taking out some books, aren’t I?”

Harry stares at Louis’ empty hands. “Are these books invisible by any chance?”

“They absolutely are.” 

Harry bites on his pen, aware that Louis is watching him with his hands in his pockets, swaying on the spot.

"Going somewhere nice?" Harry says lowly, as he continues scrawling his notes in the margin of a textbook.

"Nah, I just always look this good," Louis smirks, flicking his hair. Harry sighs.

Then suddenly Louis is lifting himself up onto the little free space there is on Harry’s desk.

“What are you doing? Get off, now!"

“Shh,” Louis reprimands, putting a finger to his lips. “This is a library, Harry,”  he whispers, smirking. He even tuts. Harry wants to beat him over the head with the heaviest volume of Keats. "What you reading then?" he asks, nonchalant, bright eyes sweeping over Harry's cluttered mess of a work space.

Harry stares at him, face twisted in disbelief and skepticism. "Like you're actually interested," he says on an eyeroll, because really, when has Louis ever taken an interest in books?

A look of irritation passes over Louis' face.

"Why do you _always_ just assume things about me?" he says seriously, and maybe there's a tinge of hurt somewhere in there, too. Harry blinks. "I do read, you know, and I happen to like it a lot, too. Maybe I don't read as often as an English Lit major over here, but I do, okay?" he frowns, defensive.

There's a few beats of silence. Harry tucks a stray curl behind his ear, feeling Louis' eyes still on him as he stares down at his notebook. Harry coughs awkwardly. Well, now he feels shitty.

‘M sorry," Harry says softly, risking a glance back up at him. "You're right. I shouldn't just assume you don't read just because  _I've_ never seen you with a book. I didn't mean to... well... sorry."

Louis shrugs. "Whatever," he replies just as softly, the crease between his brows smoothing out, eyes darting around their surroundings, at the heads focused downwards and studying, Louis' legs dangling off the table. 

But the brief moment of unanimity, if you could even call it that, is broken when Louis starts to fiddle around with Harry's things, losing a place inside a book that Harry had tucked a post-it in to save.

"Louis!" he hisses.

"Oops," Louis smiles, sheepish.

“Great," he grits. "Now I'm going to have to find that passage all over  _again_." He holds up the unbelievably thick novel in his hand, thrusting it in Louis’ rudely amused face."Do you know how long that took me to go through? It's not even good!" He slams his pen down in a long drawn out huff. "Will you  _please_  just leave me in peace?” Harry pleads, sifting his hands through his hair.

“Okay, sorry," Louis says, shoulders hunching with breathy giggles, not sounding the slightest bit sorry at all. "I was just leaving anyway. I only really came over to give you a heads up that some shockingly creepy guy over there is eyeing you up.”

Harry looks at him dubiously. “Where?”

Louis points to the computer section. And sure enough a peculiar looking dude (Harry's trying to be nice) is staring outright at Harry, appearing as though he'd very much like to bury Harry in a shallow grave after hitting him over the head with a shovel. “Oh, fuck.”

“Want me to get rid of him for you?” Louis grins, impish, resting a hand on Harry's left shoulder.

“Why would you do that?” Harry asks suspiciously, eyes narrowing.

Louis suddenly hops off of the desk and steals a crisp out of Harry’s secret stash, poking out of his bag by the desk’s leg. “I wouldn’t,” he laughs, and skips off, cackling.

Harry sighs, and resumes his note taking, resolutely  _not_  thinking about how good Louis looks in those jeans as he bounces away.

**

“Okay, so which one of these says ‘I’m a sophisticated singleton looking for true love?’” Harry asks on a small hiccup, having had a few bright red, sour shots already.

He’s currently holding up two of his most ostentatious shirts from his wardrobe—one being bright crimson with slightly frilly sleeves and a white floral pattern, and the other a more understated shirt but made of silky, charcoal satin which drapes over his torso nicely.

Niall doesn’t appear even remotely interested, though, only blindly points a blunt finger to one, while he towel dries his pale head. “Um, the one on the right,” he mumbles.

Harry frowns. “This one?” It’s the red shirt with the white floral pattern. Niall would never pick it. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s decent,” he shrugs, dropping his towel from around his hips and wandering over to his wardrobe stark naked.

“Niall, please!” Harry shrieks, but still cheekily pats one of his bum cheeks as he passes, earning a hearty laugh from his joyous mate, until finally, he looks at Harry’s choice of shirts.

“Oh, no,” he shakes his head. “That one’s too loud and middle-aged. You’re not wearing that one if you want to pull tonight, Haz. The black one,” he instructs.

“I’m looking for love, not a shag I’ll never see again, Niall. And it’s actually charcoal satin,” he corrects, “not black, you uncultured swine.” He makes a scrunched up face, etched in disgust.

Niall holds up his hands, a grin stuck to his flushed, freshly showered face. “Excuse me, Mr Saint Laurent.”

“You pronounced it wrong,” Harry deadpans, searching through his wardrobe and picks out a smart pair of skinny jeans, taking his things to the steamed up bathroom. “So, who’s coming tonight?” Harry calls, while he gets down to changing.

“Uh, there’s Liam, obviously,” Niall’s voice calls back. “Louis, James, Perrie, Ed, Jade, Leigh-Anne, Laura—“

Wait. Louis?

Oh, well that’s great! Super.

What a way to dampen his mood. How’s he going to have any chance of searching for decent guys while Louis is hanging around to mess things up for him? With his constant meddling and scaring away every male that so much as glances at him. (It has nothing to do with being distracted by Louis’ face and physique).

“Louis’ going?" he whines. "Oh, god! I thought you said he wasn’t?”

“Changed his mind, I guess,” Niall says, unaffected.

"What?" Harry walks back into their bedroom area and starts to fix his hair, ruffling through it insistently until he touches the ends, a deep set frown settling onto his features. “Since when?” Harry demands, aware he probably sounds a bit desperate, and yep, Niall has most definitely got the wrong idea because when he spins around, Niall is standing there (thankfully with boxers on now), smirking delightedly, seeming particularly satisfied with Harry’s reply.

“Since I casually mentioned _you_ were going,” Niall says knowingly, wagging his eyebrows, sending a suggestive wink Harry’s way as he throws his head back with laughter. “Think he likes you, actually.” He gives him another wink.

Harry stares with bemused eyes. “That’s a bunch of a crap! He hates me.”

“’Hates’ is a bit strong, mate.” He raises his eyebrows.

“You’re joking, right?” Harry says flatly.

Niall shrugs, eyes full of glee. This subject is starting to rub Harry the wrong way. It's all kinds of confusing and irritating and he just wants another damn alcoholic drink to guzzle down. Or six. And maybe some weed.

“Even if that’s true, and Louis doesn’t hate me, he’s probably only going so he can ruin any chances I have of hitting it off with anyone,” he grumbles.

Niall rolls his eyes.

"He will!"

“To be fair, though, I doubt you’ll find the love of your life inside a nightclub, Haz.”

“But why does Louis always do this? It’s like he follows me around. He’s always bloody there, Niall!” He throws up his hands. "I'm sick of his... of his..." (Don't say perfect face, Harry. Do not). "I'm sick of his...  _face_!" Harry finishes, full of pent up Louis frustration that is in no way sexual. Nope. Nuh uh.

“And I told you why he’s like this,” Niall says as he struggles into his jeans. Harry doesn’t know how that’s even possible, seeing as his legs are basically twigs.

Harry gives him a dubious look. “Why's that?"

“Because he likes you, dimwit,” Niall says, a frown pronouncing the sharpness of his blue eyes as he whacks Harry lightly over the head. “Use that brain of yours. You’ve got a damn good one, haven’t you?”

Harry pouts, rubbing his head. "Oh, for god's sake. Don't start that ridiculous, 'if he's mean to you, it means he likes you' crap. Do you know how damaging that is? It’s a stupid concept," Harry scolds.

"But he does though!" Niall laughs again. "He just doesn't know how to react to the fact he does. I’m telling you, Haz. Louis likes you.”

"He doesn't," Harry says again, jaw set.

“Alright, whatever you say,” says Niall, shrugging on a white shirt, fingering the buttons, still with a grating smirk on his face.

Harry scowls, feeling very unsettled and pissed off as he shoves his feet into his suede boots, followed by a spritz of aftershave, and hurriedly grabs his keys and phone, stomping towards the door, away from Ireland’s annoying version of Cupid, because this whole conversation has suddenly made him feel terribly nauseous.

**

Things don't get any better at the club either.

Louis _isn't_  here, which is a plus, obviously. Except he may as well be, since Louis has still been the constant hot topic of conversation, brought up by nearly everyone tonight, and they're all being insufferable right now.

He hates his friends.

Particularly Liam, who he's sure has been talking and scheming with Niall with their ridiculous matchmaking ideas.

"You obviously fancy the guy," Liam slurs happily, arms slung around him. 

Harry holds him up, cackling without humour.

"You do,” Liam insists. “I'm serious, Harry. We can all see it, you know.” Hmm. Doubt that. He watches as Liam sways on the spot, as though he’s trying to get Harry to slow dance to an awful Jason Derulo remix, tipping his head back as he takes another swig of his drink—Harry’s certain he’s dripping it all down his back. Lovely. “You have feelings for Louis," he says, his brown puppy dog eyes achingly earnest and... serious? Is Liam serious? What the fuck is he on?  _Feelings_? For Louis? No, no, no. Why does everyone keep fucking saying that?

Harry’s eyes widen, feeling his mouth twisting with disgust. Because feelings? Uh, no. Sexual feelings? Um... yes. But any other types of feelings are all greatly negative ones. The audacity of Liam, to be honest?! Why is everyone he knows so obsessed with the idea of them together? 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Harry holds onto Liam’s ruffled collar with both hands. “Liam, I do not have _‘feelings’_  for Louis Tomlinson!” he practically squeaks dramatically, horrified. “Unless these ‘feelings’ you’re referring to are that of extreme dislike and frustration.”

“ _Sexual_  frustration,” Liam smirks. “You can’t deny that,” Liam says, a burp following. “You’ve fancied him since I’ve known you. Do you know how bloody obvious you are?”

“No, I don’t!” Lies. It’s all lies. He knows it’s a lie. Everyone knows. Harry does fancy Louis. Harry's always fancied Louis.

Treacherous, treacherous crush.

But he will deny it again and again. No one can stop him.

“Please! You claim you can’t stand Louis and yet all you ever go on about is _Louis_!”

Scoff. An outrageous observation. He doesn’t. Harry does not. He does not—

He... Does he?

Oh, fucking shit.

Liam shakes his drunken head, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re so oblivious, mate. You wait. With time, you’ll come crying to my door professing your undying love for Louis William Tomlinson. Mark my words,” he slurs, poking at Harry’s chest a little robustly. Ouch. “I look forward to the day, mate,” he smiles.

Harry glares at his friend. “Excuse me, Liam. You’re sorely mistaken. That’ll happen when Hell freezes over,” he insists crossly,” folding his arms (somewhat defensively) over his chest.

The nerve to imply the... well. Maybe, perhaps, even slightly, the mortifying, begrudging... possible truth?

Oh, Jesus. Oh, shit. Fuck. What does he does he do with this troubling realisation?

Except it’s not a new thing, is it? Oh, God. It really isn’t. He’s spent the entirety of his teenage years lusting after Louis Tomlinson. He’s always known he has a crush. A massive, soul-destroying, incredibly persistent crush.

But to know that it’s obvious. That Liam sees it. That even Niall can see it clear as day. That practically everyone has made suggestive, wink-wink comments about his ‘boyfriend’s’ whereabouts this evening.

Oh, God, then Louis must genuinely be aware? Like, yeah, he teases him about it, but does he actually think Harry wants him? Like,  _wants_  wants him? That he wants to cuddle him and make him tea? And get him his glasses, and cook his dinner for him? That he’d easily take anything Louis wanted to give him without hesitation?

Oh, this is the worst thing to ever happen. This is mortifying to the highest degree.

Louismight  _know_  how Harry feels, might have known before Harry did, and it’s unsettling and nauseating and Harry just doesn’t know how to deal with this possibility at all.

“I’m going to bed,” Harry grumbles, suddenly very not in the mood for any partying whatsoever.

“Alright, night, Harry. Tell me when you want to let Louis know,” he hiccups, “that you want to have at least six babies with him!” he calls with an haughty amount of hilarity and self-righteousness in his voice.

That bloody infuriating know-it-all.

**

Harry doesn’t go to bed. Because how can he sleep? Knowing what he's realised now? 

So instead he wallows (he will live in denial for the foreseeable future)—pointedly trying  _not_  to think about Louis, desperately—on one of the benches situated on campus for God knows how long. It's his favourite bench. It sits under this massive, beautiful oak tree in which he envisions one day carving his initials into, along with his soulmate’s initials too, the missing half of himself, the ones they write incredibly touching and heartfelt songs about—and he lays sprawled out atop the cold, hard wood, clutching a bottle of wine to his chest, wearing his flimsy satin button down and freezing his bum off for the aesthetic.

All he needs now is a deep red rose with a thorny stem between his teeth while he quotes Oscar Wilde uninronically, before he actually transforms into a glacier and is forever immortalised on this bench, body perfectly preserved and there for the kids to stare at, and feel tremendous sympathy for this young man who was in love with love, but ended his life having never been loved in return.

An exquisite tragedy.

And Harry is incredibly drunk.

Because he might like Louis, which is enough on its own to mess Harry's head up. Has he liked him all this time? No. This is too much. He doesn't _like_ Louis. Not like that. Maybe he's just growing more tolerant of him, and maybe even doesn't mind his company anymore, that's all. That's all there is to it.

Louis is still the bane of Harry's existence, and Louis still can't stand Harry.

His traitorous heart constricts at that.

What? That's... ugh.

Harry's so drunk.

He shifts on his side, which is bruised now from the hard wood he’s been laying on for an immeasurable amount of time, stupidly trying to slurp from the bottle in this awkward position, spilling precious drops of red wine onto the grey stone, patio tiles. Fuck it.

Harry drifts into a dreamless sleep.

**

When Harry gets back from drowning his sorrows, Niall’s not there to have a cuddle with, which he expected. That wild party animal is relentless, and probably isn’t going to come home tonight so he gets out a bottle of water from the fridge and trudges miserably towards his room, closing it quietly behind him. One of the girls they share the kitchen with is sleeping, can hear her soft snores, so he makes sure he doesn’t make a sound as he gets out his keys from his jean pocket.

Harry’s phone buzzes just as he unlocks the door and pads in like a tortoise. Liam’s name flashes on the screen.

_Did you get home ok?_

**Yeah I’m fine have a good night X**

_Alright thanks mate night night x_

He sets his phone down on his bedside table and rubs at his eyes, about to strip off when there’s a knock at the door.

“Niall?” he calls lazily, a whisper shout, head pounding and feeling incredibly sick and yucky.

He groans as he pads back over to open the door, deflating further when he sees who’s there.

“Oh. It’s you,” Harry says flatly.

Louis sends Harry a bored look, inspects his nails as he slumps lazily against the door frame.

“Can I help you?” Harry rumbles slowly, eyeing him with exhausted distaste.

“No, I was looking for Niall,” Louis says with an impassive tone, eyes trained elsewhere as he exhales dramatically.

“I thought you were gonna be at the club?” Harry frowns, unable to not ask, seeing as he thought his night would be ruined by him anyway.

Which it has been.

Louis is the reason for his drunken misery.

And now Harry is fixated on the fact that Louis looks incredibly warm and soft standing at his door.

“No. Didn’t in the end,” he mumbles, eyes still on the floor.

Harry rolls his eyes. Louis’ obviously got something playing on his mind, and he’s not a complete monster so Harry asks him, even a little sincerely, even when he feels like death, “What’s up?” which makes Louis’ eyes snap up to his with a furrowed brow, staring at him like he’s grown two heads.

“You’re asking what’s up with me?” Louis says, eyebrows raised suspiciously.

Harry shrugs, really just wanting to go to bed already. And  _not_  think about Louis. “You obviously want to talk, so talk,” he grumbles, unable to stop himself from keeping the conversation going. This is new.

“To you?” Louis says, dubiously.

“Yeah?”

"With you?" he repeats.

"Yes."

"Talk to you?"

"Yes," Harry grits. He's going to fucking hit him with his water bottle. Fuck this crush or infatuation or obsession or whatever inconvenient mess this is.

Louis pouts, seemingly thinking it over, lips pursing and opening again. He finishes with a pout. “Fine,” he sighs at last.

“Fine.” Harry shrugs, standing aside and Louis pads in wearing only his socks.

“Where are your shoes?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, ‘spose not.”

At least he’s got socks _on_. He tells him so because he needs to be reminded lest they die of suffocation. “At least you’re wearing socks, I guess. Your feet smell like the plague’s hit the twenty-first century.”

“Oh, whoa, there!” Louis scowls, mouth agape in indignation. “That’s a bit fucking harsh!”

“Shh,” Harry hisses, frowning. His head feels like a brick has been thrown at it. “Are you coming in or what?” Harry says, impatient. He just wants to climb into bed and sleep off this nightmare.

“Been out have you?” Louis says, giving him a longer than is strictly necessary once over.

“Yes, and it was a disaster. People won’t mind their own business and don’t realise that people can’t help the way they feel.” Louis stares at him with a quirked eyebrow. “Can I get ready for bed while you talk?”

“Already?” Louis checks his phone. “It’s only half three.”

“That’s late!” Harry protests.

“Alright, whatever you say, old man,” Louis laughs, airy and light.

Harry growls low in his throat.

“Jesus, Harry, I had no idea you were part wolf."

“Oh, for god’s sake, Louis. Sit down or get out! What are you even doing here this late anyway?”

“Okay, chill out. Bloody hell,” he says, voice going high pitched, tinged with amusement as he holds up his hands in surrender, a smirk teasing his lips. Harry forces himself to not stare at them.

Instead he watches as Louis circles the room, eyes flitting over to Harry’s side of the room quickly, then he casually strolls over to Niall’s bed, taking his sweet, infuriating time before he sits down on Niall’s bed, only to instantly get up and make himself at home on  _Harry’s_  bed. Louis tucks his folded arms behind his head and lets his eyes flutter shut, the shadows of his eyelashes fanning over his sharp cheekbones, lit by the golden hue of Harry’s bedside lamp.

Harry stares at him from the doorway, making a noise to indicate how incredulous he is and make it clear that Louis has no invitation to be on his bed. “Excuse me? What do you think you’re doing? Get off my bed, will you? I don’t know where you’ve been,” Harry whines.

Louis groans particularly loud and drawn out. It doesn’t do anything to Harry’s  _situation_  whatsoever, but he does try to discreetly cup his dick.

“Are you touching yourself?” Louis suddenly says, one eye twitched open.

“No!” Harry immediately insists.

“And with me in the room, mere feet away from your indecency! I'm right here, Harry, you sex crazed maniac!" he screeches. But he’s messing with him. Harry can tell by the wind-up merchant tone of his voice that he’s so used to now, unfortunately. 

“Oh my God! Fucking hell. Are you going to speak or what?” Harry rips his shirt off over his head in one speedy motion and chucks it at Louis’ face.

Louis whips it off and pretends to inhale...  _no_ , wait, he’s  _actually_ inhaling it (what the fuck??) then bursts into those sinister cackles he somehow thinks resembles laughter and chucks the shirt himself, right onto the floor.

“Hey!”

He’s insufferable. Can he just get out?

“Get out."

“No,” he whines. Harry spots a high flush on each of his cheeks.

“Have you been drinking?”

“You clearly have,” he smirks.

“Get out.”

“I need to talk!”

“Well, fucking talk then!”

Louis stays quiet for once as Harry speedily changes into a white t-shirt and strips off his jeans until he’s standing in just his boxers. He walks over to his chest of drawers and carelessly rummages through them to pull out a pair of blue plaid pyjama bottoms, feeling Louis’ eyes on him. It makes him feel on edge, head feeling slightly dizzy, and he doesn’t think he can blame the alcohol that’s still in his bloodstream. Which makes it increasingly difficult not to take full advantage of the fact that Louis is here in  _his room_ , and on his bloody  _bed._

He desperately shakes off the thought, and Harry hastily pulls on his bottoms and wanders into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he returns Harry jumps on Niall’s bed, shooting a scowl in Louis’ direction, and wriggles under his covers. Niall’s likely not going to be back tonight, considering it’s a Saturday and he’s probably gone home with a girl. Harry has no clue how Niall does it. 

“Okay,” he sighs. “Start talking or I’m dragging you out of here myself,” Harry instructs firmly, contemplating smothering him with a pillow when Louis smirks  _again_.

“So, I’m behind on my rent. On my student flat,” Louis begins slowly, biting on his lip as he pauses. Harry swears his cheeks have reddened. He’s embarrassed. Which is a rarity for one Louis Tomlinson. At least he’s human then.

“Do you want help?” Harry asks just as slowly. “Is that why you wanted Niall? To borrow money?”

“Well, yes and no. I can’t ask Liam because I’ll get a lecture and a stern earful about responsibility so Niall seemed my best option. I’ll pay him back obviously.”

“So what’s the no part about?” Harry wonders.

Louis sniffs. “Well,” he pauses. “I had a proposition for him,” he says hesitantly, reaching a hand down to the hem of his black and purple striped jumper. It practically swamps his petite frame, the sleeves covering his hands to the knuckles.

“Which is?”

He eyes Harry warily for a moment, and Harry stares back, shifts so that’s he’s on his side facing Louis, showing his attention is solely on him.

“Okay, so there’s this new game show being filmed in a month or so. I saw an ad for it online,” Louis adds, as if he knows by Harry’s furrowed brows he’s already lost him. Because what? A game show? Of all the things he might have thought Louis would say, it wasn't this. “And if you and your teammate answer all the questions correctly, you can win a jackpot of up to thirty grand.”

Thirty grand. Now Harry gets it.

Louis smiles brightly as he stops speaking, his scruff scattered cheek titled on the pillow towards Harry, brushing his face with his sweater paw, fringe falling into his eyes.

Harry pushes down the unfamiliar flutter in the pit of his stomach. Louis just looks so soft...

Ahem. Anyway. “Okay,” he drawls. “So what you’re saying is you want to go on this show and try to win some money?”

“Got it in one. Quite clever really, aren’t you, Styles?” Louis mocks.

“Shut your face, dickhead.”

Louis chuckles airily into his jumper clad hand. “But yeah. I’ve already downloaded the application form,” Louis says, with a pleased expression on his face, as though he thinks he’s thought of the best idea imaginable.

It sounds like a stupid idea, but Harry guesses it’s easy enough to get onto one. There’s plenty of rubbish game shows on telly these days. It’s a generous prize amount though compared to most.

"You think it will be that easy, do you?" he says, quirking an eyebrow.

"Well, no. Not without a teammate it won't."

“And I’m guessing you want Niall to fill that role?” Louis nods slowly, a flash of odd scrutiny in his eyes, but then it’s gone. Harry’s brows knit. “Well, what’s the theme of the show? What are the questions about? General knowledge?”

Louis hums. “Not exactly. The questions are about the other teammate.”

“Like friends or family members? Things about them?”

“Kind of on that line... but more like, um. Couples.”

“Couples?” Harry echoes.

“Yeah, you know. People in relationships. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Married people,” Louis lists them casually, laying back down with his face tilted up toward the ceiling. He gives Harry a sideways glance.

“But, Louis," Harry begins, brows knitting. "You don’t have a boyfriend.”

At least, Harry thinks he doesn’t. No, he’s sure he doesn’t. He’d know. Fuck, he hopes he doesn’t, and isn’t that another alarming punch to the gut. Why would he hope he doesn't?

“I know that, thanks,” Louis quips, eyes narrowing.

Okay. He can breathe. 

“Is that where Niall comes in? You want Niall to pretend to be your boyfriend for the show?”

Louis turns back over, nods once, eyes watchful.

Harry can’t help it. He starts to laugh hysterically, slapping the duvet with zealous enthusiasm.

“What?” Louis demands. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”

“It’s just—” Harry heaves, cradling his stomach. “It’s just the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” he stutters through his relentless giggles, squeezes his eyes shut as he falls back down onto the bed. “You and Niall? Together? Boyfriends? Fucking hilarious.”

“Stop fucking laughing,” Louis hisses. “Why the hell is it so funny? No. Please, do tell, Harry. Enlighten me. I’d love to know.”

“Because,” he breathes, giggles finally dwindling. “It’s ridiculous,” he grins. “In no way could you two pull off a relationship. It’d be incestuous! There’s exactly zero sexual chemistry between you two. You’re as platonic as they come. Who’s gonna believe that?”

Louis stares, incredulous. Or outraged. One of the two. Or both. “Well, fuck. How are we supposed to pull it off if even you don’t believe it?”

“Well, they won’t know, really, will they?” Harry tries, still finding the whole idea of Niall and Louis so funny, and actually quite gross. Like brothers who... Harry actually does a whole body cringe. “Ugh!” he shouts suddenly.

“What?”

“The image of you two in my head. It’s frightening, quite honestly.”

Louis exhales angrily, glaring at Harry. Then he stops, pondering. “Actually, I think they check. They have a sort of short audition process to find the right couples for the show. They want to cast different, diverse couples with the best chemistry. There’s a whole list of questions on the application about your relationship. Some necessary details, and some like how long you’ve been together, where you met, blah, blah, blah. They film a short opening too, a couple montage of sorts, talking a bit about each other, showing off their relationship and all that before each of them goes on to play the game.”

“Oh,” Harry frowns. “Sounds a bit more complicated then," he says, giggles having died down. "But you know, it would be much easier if you were actually  _in_ a real relationship,” Harry says, amused. “And obviously you don’t have one, and I doubt Niall would do it anyway. Plus there's the tiny detail that if you do get picked to be on TV, everyone’s gonna see it and they’ll all know you’re lying. You’ll get so much shit off your mates and your family. You mum will be livid you haven’t told her about a boyfriend, Lou,” he coos sarcastically.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Louis huffed, folding his arms over his chest protectively. "You don't really think that do you?"

"Um, have you met your mother?" Harry smiles, thoroughly entertained. 

Louis covers his face with his hands and screams into them.

“Just choose another game show to go on if you’re dead set on this kind of thing. What about Countdown?" he suggests. He can’t believe he’s humouring him.

Louis unsheilds his surly face. “You win a fucking teapot as far as I’m aware, Harold. I need money, don't I? That's the whole point of this. Besides, I'm shit at maths," Louis grumbles.

“Deal or No Deal?”

“No,” Louis drawls, agitated. “They’re not casting for a new series at the moment anyway. Too risky that one, too.”

“The Cube?” 

Louis' quite good at mind games, obviously, and he's quick and agile, he'd be great at it. (He adds these to the list of things he'll never say aloud to Louis.)

“That would have been fun, but this is the only one taking applications with a sizable prize fund,” Louis sighs.

“Looks like you’re going to have to find yourself a fake boyfriend then,” Harry says, grinning as he lays back down. But when it stays quiet for a tad too long, he looks up to find Louis’ gaze on him. “What?”

Louis is staring at him intently, unblinking, and Harry can practically see the wheels turning inside his head. Oh, God... he’s gonna ask—

“What if you did it?”

Shit.

“Excuse me?”

Louis’ face spreads into a wide grin, eyes glittering with mirth and mischief.

Oh, God.

"Come on!” he urges. “I may not be able to stand your smug face but at least we know each other pretty well, yeah? It'll be a piece of piss."

"You're forgetting we'll have to pretend to be a  _couple_ , Louis!"

“I know," he shrugs. "Will you be my fake boyfriend, Harry Styles?” Louis sings, feigning coyness, fluttering those incredibly pretty eyelashes at him as he cradles Harry’s pillow. “Please?” he pouts.

Dammit.

“Are you joking?”

“No. I’m serious.”

“No way!”

Because how could they possibly pull this off believably? They can’t stand each other most of the time. They don’t even have  _chemistry_ — Oh. Well, that’s not exactly true, is it? Not even remotely true, actually. Their sexual chemistry is obviously there, is off the charts lately.

But pretending to  _like_ each other? _Love_  each other, even?

Well, really, it’s just a bit too close to what he’s realised tonight, isn’t it?

Besides. Even if he does like Louis that way, he still can’t imagine liking Louis full stop. Let alone being with him.

They can’t do it. There’s no way.

Impossible.

“Me? That’s even more ridiculous than you thinking you could make people believe you’re in love with Niall!”

“Please, we both know that’s bullshit.”

“How is it?” Harry asks defensively, pulse rabbiting.

Louis tilts his head impatiently. “Oh, come on. Don’t pretend you can’t remember,” he mutters quietly. “We were drunk, but not that drunk.”

And what? Is Louis actually acknowledging the time they almost slept together? Finally?

“Of course I remember,” Harry insists, probably a tad too impassioned from the way Louis’ eyes widen. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it. I thought you wanted to forget it ever happened. That you regretted it or something,” he mumbles.

“But," Louis pauses. "I thought you were the one that regretted it?" Louis sits up with furrowed brows. "You never said anything after?"

“Neither did you. You blanked me the next day and you never brought it up again. "What was the conclusion I was supposed to draw from that?"

“But... I stopped pranking you,” Louis protests, sitting up back on his haunches, gesturing with his hands wildly. “I started hanging out with the boys with  _you_  there as well, didn't I? I always stopped other—” Louis trails off, suddenly snapping his mouth shut.

“So?" Harry blinks, confused.  Where is this going? "What’s that supposed to mean? You were always around before, and we still fought all the time.”

"Maybe that's because you were and always are a prick," Louis hisses.

"Back at you," Harry scowls.

Louis purses his lips together, breaking their intense staring, frowning deeply as his shoulders finally deflate, and he bounces back down onto the mattress, arms crossed.

Harry stares at him, still leaning in his direction. “Is there anything you wanna say to me?” he says after a stretched silence.

“Like what?” Louis mutters, still not looking at him.

Yeah, like what, Harry? 

“I dunno,” Harry mumbles with a shrug, picking at a loose string of fabric from the corner of Niall's duvet, unsure of what he even wanted Louis to say anyway.

There’s another lengthy silence.

Harry sighs loudly, making Louis look over. “Look, how much do you need? I’ll lend you the money—”

“No! I’m not a charity case, Harry."

“You were gonna ask Niall though—" Harry starts.

“Because he’s my  _friend_ ,” Louis snaps, the word drenched in spite.

Harry feels surprising stung by that. And he shouldn’t, should he? Because it’s the truth. Harry is not Louis’ friend. They’ve never been friends. They’ve kissed, though. They’ve been intimate enough before that Harry knows what Louis’ breath feels like against his neck, and what Louis sounds like when he’s turned on, when he’s close—

Harry shuts his eyes, burying his face in his pillow.

It's quiet again for a few agonizing moments.

“Anyway," Louis says quietly. "It's not until the end of next month that I owe my landlord two months worth of rent."

"What about this month?"

"He wasn't happy about it but he said I could pay both lots at the end of March instead. If I can't pay it though... I'm out. But the show's recording coincides around that time too so... you know. If we win the money, any money, it's paid for then, right?"

Harry laughs a little. "You know most people would just let someone lend them the money. You're crazy, aren't you?" he murmurs, smile small.

Louis meets his gaze somewhat shyly, which is odd, smiling into his shoulder. Harry figures he's just embarrassed. "Yeah, well. That's me," Louis starts, more confidently again, "and if you don't like it—"

"I wasn't starting anything, Louis."

"Well, I wasn’t looking for Niall to borrow money though, was I? I wanted him to come on the show with me to win it." Louis sweeps a hand over his fringe, expression crestfallen. Oh, God. He looks like a kicked kitten.

Harry exhales, somewhat shakily, feeling uncomfortable. He sniffs, cards a hand through his hair.

When he looks back over at Louis he finds him watching him with a guarded expression. “Please?” he asks softly. "Harry?" Louis' never used that voice on Harry. Ever. 

Harry just looks at him, an odd shiver curling down his spine.

“Please, do this with me. You have bills and student loans to pay off, right? We’ll split the money, yeah? If you agree to this, whatever we win, we'll get half each, I promise."

He sounds earnest, unusually so.

Jesus Christ, he’s going to regret this.

“Alright,” he says on a breath, exasperated.

“What?” Louis’ eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening infinitesimally. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Harry says, albeit reluctantly.

“Oh, thank fuck!” Louis shouts.

“Shh. Keep it down, will you?” Harry scolds. “And if we’re doing this, I want to win the whole thing. I want the thirty grand jackpot.”

“Fucking yes! Alright!”

Louis falters. “This means we’re gonna have to go all out though. We have to be completely, unquestionably convincing if we’re going to get picked.”

“We better get on with knowing everything there is to know about each other then. We're basically half way there, so... shouldn't be too difficult,” he says, mouth forming a small smile. “I know all your bad habits and a lot of your favourite things, details about your family, the fact that your feet completely—”

"Yes, alright," Louis warns. “Guess being arch rivals throughout our academic careers has helped us out quite well,” he smirks.

Harry smirks too. “Now get out. I want to sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

Louis jumps up, ecstatic, and slaps Harry’s stomach, causing Harry to flinch in pain as Louis quickly scuttles out the door. “See you, Styles. Bright and early!”

Harry moves to his own bed and groans as he buries his face into his own pillow, catching the faint scent of Louis’ aftershave on the soft fabric, momentarily lost in it.

This is going to be a disaster.

**

Harry wakes to ear-splitting banging on his door. He peaks one bleary eye open and turns on his side, greeted with Niall’s empty bed. The banging resumes.

“Who is it?” Harry groans.

“It’s your friendly neighbour, Louis Tomlinson,” announces a bright raspy voice—one he knows all too well.

"I don't know him," he says into his pillow.

"Harryyy," Louis sings.

“It’s fucking  _ten_  on a _Sunday_  morning, Louis!” he practically screams.

“Oh, just let me in. I’ve brought you gifts!”

Harry lifts his head up and blinks rapidly at the door. “Since when do you bring me presents? Who are you?”

“Well, if we’re going to fake undying, gooey love for each other, I’m going to have to learn to be nice to you first, aren’t I? It will be difficult though. Even I can't work miracles.”

He's such a shit.

Louis’ voice sounds muffled, like he’s pressing his mouth against the door. Which he most definitely is. He’s such a child. A noisy, constantly restless child who wants attention at all times. God, what is he going to be like as a boyfriend?  _Fake_  boyfriend. They’re going to be  _fake boyfriends_ , Harry reminds himself, annoyed he even needs to remind his traitorous, useless brain in the first place.

Eh, no one has to know that happened. A tiny slip up.

So Harry groggily rolls out of bed, half-aware that the only item of clothing he’s wearing are his boxer briefs, and stumbles over his suede boots to let Louis in.

Louis almost falls back onto the floor when Harry pulls the door open, Louis' mouth agape. A grey cotton sweatshirt fits his torso nicely, showing off the dips of his collarbones and there’s a matching grey beanie atop his head, ruffled, caramel tinted fringe poking out the front. He looks comfy and... well.  _Cute_. Which is a terrible observation. Harry wants to crawl back under the covers, stay there, and think about what he just thought of  _Louis_.

But Harry follows his line of vision to the very tight boxers he has on, his um, morning wood bulging against his thigh through the thin fabric, bare chest and legs on display. Harry glances back up, and smirks. “Like what you see, babe?" he risks teasing. Because otherwise he's going to die of embarrassment. 

Louis' dazed eyes connect with Harry, pointedly staring right into his, avoiding looking at anything else.

“Don’t call me that,” Louis glares, apparently snapping out of any good mood he was previously in, pushing roughly past Harry’s half naked body, two large Starbucks coffees in a cardboard holder.

“Alright,” Harry grumbles. “I thought we were being nice to each other?” he says, holding his arm, pouting.

“We’ve not started yet.” He skulks into the room, placing the cardboard tray on Harry’s desk. “I’ll tell you when that historic time comes around,” he snips.

Well, then. Peace lasted a grand total of two minutes, if that.

“Jesus, how neat how are you?” Louis scans Harry’s desk with disbelieving eyebrows, eyeing the perfectly placed position of each of Harry’s belongings on his desk surface. He likes everything tidy and particular and orderly, alright? Louis is the complete opposite of Harry. Whereas Harry’s room is always immaculate—and Niall is too, so he’s the best roommate—Louis’ bedroom is an utter mess of clutter and confusion. (Harry doesn’t know this for certain but he can make an educated guess judging by Louis’ personality. And Harry deducts it must be a pigsty.) He doubts Louis can even find his bed.

"You were here last night? Did you not notice then?"

Louis says nothing.

“Did you bring me coffee?” Harry smiles as he notices the cups, immediately making grabby hands for one. "Gimme it."

“Alright, calm down, Mr Grabby,” Louis chides, but the corners of his lips are pulling upwards and Harry feels quietly pleased at that. 

He passes one cup to Harry and takes his out of the holder, taking a seat on Niall’s mostly made bed this time. (After Harry ruffled it up from last night. He’ll make it before Niall gets home. Which probably won’t be until after twelve if Niall follows his usual habits.)

“Okay, so what’s our first lesson for today?” Harry asks wryly, taking a sip from his cup. Harry wrinkles his nose when he tastes it.

Louis notices, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly. "What? You don't like it?"

"No, it's um." It’s his favourite for this time of the morning—an espresso macchiato. "I like it. It's fine. Thanks."

“I asked for two extra shots of espresso in there. And cream on top,” Louis says casually, sipping on his own drink, eyes trained on something rather riveting on the wall apparently.

He finds it a bit surprising that Louis would know how he likes his coffee (who wouldn’t want maximum caffeine in the mornings though?) But the  _cream_. People don’t normally ask for cream on espressos other than Harry, but he chooses not to say anything. Louis’ moods seem to change as easy as the weather these days.

Like, one minute they might actually get on, and end up enacting civil behaviour, even having a little fun on the odd occasion.

But then it’s like Louis _realises_  they’re having fun and because of that light bulb that switches on his awareness of ‘I’m-having-fun-with-Harry-fucking-Styles’, Louis will always immediately put a stop to it, extinguishing the tiny flame that was just about to ignite into  _something_.

But it never quite gets there. It frustrates Harry to no end, but it's...whatever.

“Right, so how are we going to do this?” Harry asks with a content warmth in his tummy as he stares at Louis. (It's the coffee. It is abso-fucking-lutely the coffee.) 

Louis kicks off his shoes and manoeuvres his legs on the bed, sitting in a crossed-legged position, cup nestled between his small, delicate hands. They’re nice hands. Dainty. Tanned. Cute.

But that is neither here nor there.

That's the second time he's called Louis cute in less than five minutes.

Get it together, Styles.

You find the guy intolerable, remember?

"First of all, you're going to get dressed," Louis instructs, holding his coffee cup with both hands.

"Can't I finish my coffee first?" Harry pouts, batting his eyelashes at him. A flash of mischievousness comes over him. "Pumpkin?" he tries, lips curved.

“And then,” Louis says, ignoring Harry, “we’re going out and we’re going to talk in detail about our likes and dislikes, our habits and dreams and—”

“If you wanted to go on a date with me, Louis, you could have just asked.” Harry smirks.

Louis sends daggers his way, and Harry pretends to zip his mouth shut and throw away the key. It earns the tiniest quirk in the corner of Louis' mouth.

Harry feels another spec of accomplishment. 

“And... Wait! What did you just call me?” Louis demands, indignant, eyes like razors as they assess a half-naked Harry, who grins happily back at him on the other side of the room. "Pumpkin?"

“Don’t you think it’d be more believable to have pet names for each other?” he suggests.

“There’s no one here to hear yet, baby cakes,” Louis deadpans, and a second later, his lips twist with the faintest of smiles.

Harry feels like he’s already won the first lot of prize money.

Harry beams. “I think we should only address one another by these names from now on.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Okay, so how many brothers and sisters do I have, pumpkin?” Harry grins, slurping his coffee at an alarming speed.

“You’re still not dressed,” Louis sings.

“Oh, fine. I’ll get dressed while you answer my questions, okay?” Harry rummages through his drawers and pulls out a dark grey sweatshirt, underwear and grabs his jeans from off his desk chair, taking them to the bathroom.

"How many siblings do I have?"

“Two. You have one older sister, and a step-brother,” Louis answers his question.

“Correct,” Harry shouts happily. “Who’s the messiest? What’s my favourite band? Favourite thing to do in my free time?” Harry lists, almost tripping as he struggles to get into his skinny jeans.

“I'm the messiest. Coldplay. You like playing the guitar and you have an obsession with taking artsy photos for your Instagram account,” Louis answers confidently.

Harry is impressed, so he tells him so. “I’m impressed, Tomlinson. You been spying on me?”

“Hardly. You’re always snapping away with that thing or your phone. Besides I do have an Instagram account too.”

“Still think you’ve been looking.”

“You flatter yourself far too much, love,” Louis calls, but his tone is cheeky and Harry smirks to himself as he pulls on his sweatshirt, padding back in to find himself a pair of clean socks, glances at Louis who sits quietly, save for the obnoxious slurping going on as he sips his coffee.

Harry sniffs, bouncing onto his bed. “Alright, so. Are we telling the guys?”

Louis sets his now empty cup down, and smirks. “No, let’s pretend we’re already a couple and see how long it takes for them to catch on, yeah?” He’s grinning now. “Might help us in the long run. You know, to see how believable we can be with the people who already know us.”

“Sounds fair,” Harry nods.

Somehow he doesn't think they're going to have much trouble convincing them after last night. He keeps that to himself though.

“Let’s get breakfast,” Harry suggests, already up and searching for his boots. “I’m starving.”

Louis shrugs. “Yeah, okay, but you’re paying,” he smiles feigning sweetness.

“Um, and why is that?” Harry asks, brow furrowed.

“Because you’re my fake boyfriend and I said so," Louis says happily, fluttering his eyelashes at him. God, they go on for miles. 

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be is it? You bossing me around?” Harry pouts.

“Yep,” Louis says with a bounce, popping the ‘p’. “Better get used to it fake boyfriend,” he smirks.

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “You better watch yourself with the adding on ‘fake’ to every sentence when we’re out in public by the way, or this whole thing is pointless. Someone’s bound to hand us in if we do win a shit load of money, Louis.”

“You say it like we’ll be arrested, Harry,” Louis laughs, following him out and staying close to Harry’s side as Harry locks his dorm room. "We're gonna go down for this!" he cackles.

“You don’t know,” Harry rumbles back. “There might be rules about that. Remember that person who coughed at the correct answers on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?”

“Jesus, Styles. You’re paranoid.”

Harry watches as Louis walks up in front of him, hips swaying as he goes, his dainty tanned ankles on display. There’s a tattoo of a triangle there that Harry can’t believe he never noticed before, his mouth curling into a smile as Louis subtly skips in his steps, his stance and mannerisms oozing a mixture of confidence, bravado and a delicate etherealness that has Harry briefly entranced. Harry shakes his head and pushes down another surge of tantalizing fluttering inside his chest.

This does not bode well.

**

It definitely does not bode well.

Because as soon as they get inside the cafe, Harry sees a group of their friends and other familiar faces are already here, multiple pairs of eyes immediately finding theirs as they join the cue to order.

Multiple pairs of eyes who are collectively smirking and exchanging knowing glances between them. Hmm. Okay, then. Great, so they already suspect. Maybe this fake dating thing is going to be easier than he thought, but the fact that they're all staring at him, trying to stifle laughs, puts an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

At least Niall and Liam aren’t here, wherever they may be or they’d be placing marriage proposal bets by Harry if he so much as looked at Louis even slightly amiably.

But then Louis, without preamble or any forewarning whatsoever grabs for Harry’s hand and gently interlocks their fingers together, sending Harry’s neck whipping so fast to glimpse at the point of contact, he’s likely gotten whiplash.

Oh sweet Jesus. The soft, slightly tepid sensation of Louis’ fingers in his sends him into a instant downward spiral, and he may well have a meltdown right here, right now for all to see because his legs are about to give way from the shock.

Louis is touching him, okay? It’s a lot to deal with. Especially since Harry is currently in the midst of an existential crisis where Louis is concerned. What is he doing? Pretending to be Louis’ boyfriend? He must have lost his mind. Yeah, okay. They could end up winning a shit ton of money but... He has no idea exactly how he feels about him anymore, or what kind of feelings are even there at all.

He’s still irritated by him obviously, but Louis is already worming in his way into Harry’s soft, unreserved places at an alarming speed and he really doesn’t know how to respond to it.

Harry was not expecting this.

He’s never held Louis’ hand in his life. Even when they were hooking up their hands never touched (many other parts of the human anatomy? Yes), but this? Currently? It’s making Harry feel a number of conflicting emotions, and he just wants everyone’s scrutinizing eyes off them now so he can make sense of a few things and calm the fuck down.

“Uh oh, look what the cat dragged in,” chirps Jesy with Jade perched on her lap.

“Where’ve you two been then? You went home early last night, Harry,” Ed says, arm leaning against the counter’s surface, and he turns back towards the barista as she hands him a steaming mug.

“Yeah, and Louis didn’t even turn up,” James comments, a tad grumpy, sitting at the table with the girls.

For a moment, Harry thinks no one has noticed, but then suddenly all eyes zero in on Harry and Louis’ hands.

Shit. Here we go. Get ready for twenty questions. The play has begun.

Harry presses his lips together, almost flinching when Louis gives his hand a quick squeeze. And what? Louis giving Harry comfort? Willingly? A gesture of support, however small and seemingly insignificant? God, this is all making Harry’s head spin. It’s bizarre. Everything is backwards.

It seems Harry doesn’t even have control of his own muscle spasms because then he’s briefly squeezing Louis’ hand back, skin clammy and warm.

If Louis notices (which obviously he must have), he doesn’t say anything. Harry is only half glad because he’d really like a peak inside Louis’ head.

But then he remembers the show. Obviously Louis is acting. Harry’s chest deflates at the thought of it being pretend. Which, holy God, he needs to get a grip. He must be drunk still, the red wine still pumping around his bloodstream and obscuring his clear, rational thoughts.

Yeah. Must be it.

“Alright, lads, ladies,” Louis nods, beaming with charming crinkly eyes.

“Lou, where were you last night? Missed you!” Jade comes bouncing over, arms pulling him in for a quick hug, and giving a matching one to Harry. “And you! Where did you get to? Liam said you left in a right huff. Speaking of,” she turns to the others, winking, and they all burst into hysterics.

Harry frowns, pouting.

“Had another hell raising night, did he?” Louis smiles, still connecting his hand with his. Harry clings to it. “I’ll not be hearing from him for at least three days then,” he laughs.

Everyone follows him with beaming smiles, Louis the center of attention, googly eyes glued to the boy holding his hand in a tight grip.

Harry seems to have turned into a mute, blinking rapidly and having no idea what to say. Which is odd for Harry. They’re going to notice. But they’re supposed to notice, right? It’s easier to pretend to everyone and then come clean once they’ve won, otherwise too many people might blab and then they’ll have no chance on getting onto the show.

“Okay, well if no one else is going to mention it,” James pipes up, and grabs their hands, lifting them up in an awkward position. “What is the meaning of this?” he practically shouts, equal parts stunned and overjoyed.

“Well, um. Look. Don’t make a big deal out of it, alright, because it’s all still brand new but um...” Louis pauses to smile coyly, ducking his chin. “Me and Harry are sort of dating now.” He turns to Harry and connects their gazes, staring at him with overwhelming fondness and affection in his eyes.

Harry stares back dumbstruck. For a second, Harry almost believes it. Wow, Louis is really playing this up to the max.

Now if he could just make his own bloody mouth work.

“Are you joking? Harry, is this true?” Jesy practically squeals. Jade is up off her lap, mouth wide and eyes wider.

Harry’s eyes widen too, can still see Louis beaming like the sun in his peripherals. Oh, God. Why is this happening again? He’s fine with being in student debt for the foreseeable future. Do they really have to do this?

Harry just nods and says, “Yeah,” in a hoarse voice, trying to smile but at this point it probably looks like a grimace.

“About bloody time!” she beams, Jade’s eyes still comically wide.

Ed exchanges an odd look with James, just as Niall strolls in, a dishevelled mess but face still surprisingly bright and fresh. Niall is the worst. He can drink everyone under the table, have a round of athletic sex in the same night, and then be up and running by noon the next day like nothing happened and he didn’t get completely trashed.

“Alright, who’s buying me breakfast?” he grins, then pauses. “I might have been mugged,” he announces, unaffected as ever. “Oh, no, wait.” He pats his jeans down. “I’ve got it,” he cackles, throwing his head back as he greets James, pulling in him for a bear hug. “Almost accused a poor girl of robbing me. Yikes.”

“Jesus,” Ed mutters but he smiles.

“Louis and Harry are finally dating each other! This is the best news of my life!” Jade yells, wriggling around with excitement. Harry’s face feels hot as Niall whips his head in their direction, raising his brows, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Are they now?” he says, studying Louis’ tight grip on Harry’s hand and the sheer look of panic on Harry’s face.

“Yep!” Louis affirms, smiling with an extra level of fakeness that Harry wishes he could emulate.

“So, you sorted all your shit out last night, then?  _All_  of your shit in _one_  night?” Liam asks, crossing his arms.

“Liam! You’re alive!” Louis pipes up, interrupting Liam’s train of thought.

“Shut up,” Liam grumbles, and Harry notices the way Liam’s eyes are still a bit bloodshot, sees the dark circles under them. “I’ve got a massive fucking hangover, and I’d appreciate it if for once you lowered your voice, Tomlinson.”

“How rude. Harry, tell him how rude he’s being to your lovely new boyfriend,” Louis nudges.

“Leave off him, Li,” Harry pouts, voice lamely unconvincing. Oh, God. Can they just tell them? They’ll surely be able to keep their mouths shut.

Niall hums and Liam looks equally as unconvinced, but before they can say anything else, Harry tugs on Louis’ hand towards the door, eager to get away from the questioning eyes and the inevitable interrogation. “Anyway, I’ve just remembered something I need to sort out, so we’ll see you lot later, yeah?”

“Okay,” Jade says, disappointed. “But we all want the gossip, and you’re going to tell us exactly how  _this_  happened, you hear me? I want every detail.”

Harry grimaces but hopes it looks like a smile and practically drags Louis out the door.

“What the hell was that?” Louis says immediately as they exit the cafe.

“What do you mean? I should be asking you that,” he whisper shouts, aware that the other’s eyes are still on them in the windows as they stalk away. “You just sprung it on me, I wasn’t prepared to lie to everybody!”

“It’s not lying, it’s pretending,” Louis insists, crossing his arms as he walks, huffing.

“Same thing!” Harry shoots back.

“It’s not,” he shakes his head. “And hang on! We did agree we wouldn’t tell anybody about the show. We literally said we weren’t going to tell the guys.”

“Yeah, Liam and Niall. Not everyone else!”

“Fine. So, we could tell Liam and Niall that it’s just for the show and the others—”

“No,” Harry finds himself saying. Because if they tell them the truth, they’ll still be on Harry’s back, convinced that they’ll fall in love eventually or something, so if they keep up the pretense, not only will it give them the practice for the show reel, but everyone’s speeches to Harry about him subconsciously liking Louis will stop. Win-win. Until he has to tell them the truth obviously. But he’ll worry about that then. “It’ll be good for us to practice coming across convincing, right? If we keep it up with everyone and then once we’ve got the taping done, we can come clean afterwards with the money to prove it was worth it, yeah?”

It’s a good plan. Flimsy, and in no way foolproof (because Harry is convinced this whole pretending to be Louis’ boyfriend thing is going to shoot him in the foot), but it will do for now.

“Alright, fine,” Louis agrees easily. Okay, then.

“Right, so. You want to get the rules clear somewhere while we eat? I’m about to faint if I don’t eat something this second.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Sure, let’s go.”

**

Harry tucks into his eggs Benedict and pancakes at a cafe further in town away from campus. Louis is picking the strawberries of his pancakes, chewing delicately with his arms resting on the table and Harry sits rigid, watches him do it, feeling a fluttering again. Harry shoves a mouthful of eggs in his mouth and eats them with stressed thoughts and a face that’s probably on the verge of another meltdown.

“Don’t like your food or something?” Louis comments.

So it is obvious then. Obvious that Harry is highly distressed at the fact that every little thing Louis does, he finds cute. This is literal hell.

Louis stares at him, gaze impassive, lips shiny and stained red from strawberry juice. Harry stares at them stonily. Fortunately, Louis is looking down at his tea, picking it up with his pinky sticking out, as Harry stares, transfixed. Kill him, now.

“No, they’re fine,” he mumbles, eyebrows furrowed.

Louis sips his tea. “So, just to be clear, and so you don’t have another obviously mental breakdown in a public place at the idea of everyone believing we’re together—”

“It wasn’t that—” Harry protests. It wasn’t that at all. 

Louis interrupts. “Because I know,” he sighs, “it’s mad and it’s unbelievable”—Harry shakes his head in disagreement—“Hang on. But look, Jade and Jesy were taking it as gospel in there! They believed it. So, we’re going to pretend we’re dating to everyone we know. Not only will it be good practice for the intro we have to film, but that way it won’t get out that we’re faking it to win the money and cause all sorts of complications, and then, once we’ve won, which we will,” he insists, “that’s when we’ll come clean, like you said, and everyone will laugh their arses off because we will have  _actually_  faked a relationship for the sole purpose of paying my rent.” He grins, bursting and bright and impish. Harry kind of has the urge to bop his nose of all fucking things.

“Okay,” Harry exhales, holding the bridge of his nose. All this fake dating malarkey is stressful stuff. Who knew? And they’ve barely even got the ball rolling yet. “But like, when you put it that way, it  _does_ sound insane, Louis. A lot. Like... it’s a bit much. Don’t you think?”

Louis’ face falls, twisting into a scowl Harry has been on the receiving end of far too many times to count. “I’m going to be kicked out of my flat if I don’t pay up in time! They’re really strict, Harry. I won’t get my wages from the pub for another three weeks and even then it won’t be enough to cover what I owe already,” he says, voice frantic, indignant.

“I’m just saying, it’s probably going to sound pretty excessive to other people. I’m not judging you, or anything.” He pauses. “But...”

“What?” Louis asks warily.

“The offer still stands. I’ll lend you the money—”

“Oh, shut up, Harry,” he dismisses. “Do you want to be fifteen grand richer or not?”

“Alright. I’ll shut up,” Harry grumbles. He tucks back into his food, and tries not to stare at the way Louis' eyelashes fan out over his cheeks when he looks down, blue eyes on the cars outside as he drinks his tea.

**

Bundled up in slightly few layers than usual as March approaches, Harry walks into town, skin mildly thrumming with anxiety, phone gripped tightly in his hand, all because Louis is incessantly on his mind. He’s been bombarding him with texts lately, which is weird because it’s  _Louis,_ but it’s becoming a common thing and not just because they’re doing meet-ups to revise their answers for the show. Harry actually gets these short bursts of excitement when he receives a text from him now and sees it’s from him, which... what is that? It's worrying, to be perfectly honest.

It’s been a grand total of five days since he agreed to be his fake boyfriend. How could Harry have caught amiable feelings towards him so quickly? No, it’s probably just the novelty of Louis being so civil, and actually kind of in a good mood recently. He texted Harry earlier to say he wanted to show off their ‘relationship’ with everyone around at the pub so that more people would think they were together and the go off and gossip about it.

But all Harry can think about is what exactly Louis is going to pull next. He’s already tried to hold his hand (well,  _has_  held his hand). What next? Will he sit in his lap? Make them cuddle in a booth?  _Kiss_ him??

What if he just kisses him without talking about it first?! 

These things and the possible couply acts Louis may spring on Louis at any moment are giving him excessive heart palpitations. Which has Harry wondering how the hell that is even happening in the first place.

God, this is awful. They’ve got at least another month of this yet. How is he going to cope?? Harry briefly contemplates transferring to a uni abroad to release him from this mess when he’s suddenly ambushed by a wild-eyed, beanie clad Niall attacking his shoulders. Harry screams.

“Oi, I’ve got a bone to pick with you, you filthy liar,” Niall says, trying his best to sound intimidating, poking an accusatory finger at Harry’s bemused face.

“What have I done?” Harry protests, pouting, looking around to see who heard his manly scream, knowing full well that he wants to chat about Louis and Harry apparently being in a relationship now.

“ _I_ know you like Louis but—”

“I don’t—”

“But!” Niall continues, getting louder. “There’s no way it would have happened this quickly. Not when you’re still convinced you hate him or that he hates you or whatever. So, that begs the question, what are you two really up to?” He stands with his arms crossed, staring Harry down with a curious, but deep frown.

He looks about as scary as a grumpy kitten.

Harry sighs, weighing the pros and cons of letting Niall in on the fake relationship thing. He’s obviously not buying it so far, so he can either carry on the lie and make up something about seeing the light and finally realising his feelings for Louis, or he can risk telling him the truth, and face Niall’s constant prodding and nudging about how Harry will fall in love with Louis regardless of whether they’re faking this or not.

It’s a lose-lose, to be honest. Bloody hell.

“Fine,” Harry groans. “You’re right. We’re not dating. We’re pretending to be a couple though, for a game show that’s going to be on TV in about a month’s time? You have to be a couple to apply and the couple that knows the most about the other is the winner."

Niall stares. He probably wasn’t expecting that. Who would, really? Harry feels his cheeks heat up.

“Come again?” Niall says flatly.

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed. “There’s thirty grand up for grabs,” he sighs. “Louis really needs the money and he won’t borrow it from anyone, he's already taking more shifts at the pub and he's got his overdraft to pay off and no time for another job what with uni and everything, so he thought this bright idea was the quickest way to do that, I guess," Harry shrugs, hoping it was a sufficient enough answer.

It sounds so stupid to say out loud. And Niall is staring at him like he’s insane. Which yeah, is fair.

“Shit a brick. Surely Lou doesn’t owe _thirty_ grand to some dodgy loaners or something, does he?” he says, eyes widening with alarm and concern.

“Oh, no, no,” Harry shakes his head, “nothing like that! He’s behind on his rent, and he was panicking about paying in time or he'll get kicked out—”

“Wait," he holds up a hand. "That’s the reason he’s going through with all of this? To keep up with his rent for the flat? I would have lent him it!”

“I offered too but he won’t take it, Niall. He’s as stubborn as a mule.”

“Wait, no, hang on,” Niall says skeptically. “Why did he pick  _you_ to pretend to date, eh?” Niall’s eyebrows shoot up, the ideas he has are literally transparent enough to see though his skull. “He could have picked anyone. Literally anyone else other than his  _arch-enemy_ ,” he says, face splitting into a grin as he gestures quotation marks.

He has a point. Unfortunately. Why did Louis go to him next? He could have persuaded anyone to do this with him. Everyone adores him.

Harry resumes walking with a deep set frown on his face. “Don’t start, Niall,” he warns, striding past him. Unfortunately, Niall is as quick as a whippet.

“How do you know this isn’t some sneaky plan to get you to fall in love with him?” Niall says, all too delighted, mirth in his eyes. "A way to spend time with you by pretending to be a couple, you see how nice he can actually be, and what it might be like, and then bam! You're in love with him," he shrugs.

“Oh, please,” Harry groans. “Trust me. That would be the last reasoning he’d have for a stunt like this. You've been watching too many far-fetched rom-coms."

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Niall says, still grinning.

“You look far too pleased with yourself,” Harry deadpans, continuing to stalk away from him, Niall bouncing up to him like he’s bloody Tigger. "Leave me alone and take your conspiracies with you," he grumbles, pointedly staring ahead, ignoring Niall cackling behind him.

**

So Niall took Harry out last night, and he really shouldn't have.

Because Harry is currently standing in line at a coffee shop, nursing the hangover from hell, and desperately willing a hole to open up in the flooring and take him with it. He knew he shouldn’t have let Niall drag him to the club. Who knows what kind of behaviour he let himself be sully to. (He wouldn’t be surprised if his model student reputation is tarnished thanks to last night—he’s here to finish his overdue notes after all. There's been far too much drinking going on lately.)

When Harry had got home after his three p.m. lecture, Niall was there waiting for him, ready to spring all sorts of ridiculous ways Louis might have lined up to make Harry fall in love with him using this ploy of fake dating him to his advantage, which, God, is just not happening. Louis even liking Harry at all, in any tiny way whatsoever at this point is a monumental thing that Harry is still half-convinced is an extravagant prank on Louis' part, one to taunt Harry completely by getting under his skin and using Harry's apparently generally known crush on Louis against him. Because Louis is a sneaky, sinister prankster who will stop at nothing to wind him up constantly.

But these things are only at the back of his mind. The things at the forefront of his tired mind? What the hell he might have said to Niall about Louis. He knows Sober Harry is still reluctant to accept the idea that Harry could ever feel something genuinely romantic towards Louis. But Drunk Harry? He's not convinced that Harry is anywhere near opposed to the idea anymore.

It’s because he’s contemplating ways to slowly disappear from existence, that he barely registers the barista trying to get his attention and apologises profusely (because for all Harry knows, he could have been called for the last half hour, he’s that out of it), ordering the strongest espresso they make (he asks for at least three extra shots) and slinks over to the nearest table before he collapses here and now.

He mechanically retrieves his books, his notebook and a pen from his bag and sits heavily down on the hard wooden chair.

Harry groans pathetically into his jumper, muffled and so tired, the soft fabric pulled over both of his cold hands. A beanie sits snug on his bedhead, and he slurps on his coffee, physically forces himself to take the notes he was supposed to have done days ago for this afternoon’s lecture.

He puts his pen to paper and frowns as an inkless dent is all that appears. Harry shakes the pen up and down furiously, only to splat himself with black ink, all over his jumper, his chin catching godforsaken remnants too.

Oh, fucking god. Why???

The student life has well and truly sucked since he agreed to fake date Louis. What is this? Karma? And then of course, who decides to make it worse but the caramel-haired, sinister little pixie man himself.

“Bloody hell. Someone’s had a rough night,” remarks a very amused, all too familiar voice, the bane his existence and the reason he's in this bizarre mess, a finger suddenly poking at his ink stained chin.

“Go away, Louis,” Harry warns, swatting his hand away, voice hoarse from the night before. “I’m not in the fucking mood.”

“Easy. I was just saying hello to my new boyfriend, baby cakes,” he says, voice soft and feigning sugary sweetness. Harry wants to throw up.

“I mean it. Leave me alone.” He shoots his scariest glare Louis’ way in the hope that he’ll fuck off.

Alas, it is a futile hope.

“Mind if I sit?” Louis chirps, completely undeterred.

“Why?” Harry narrows his eyes. To be fair, he’s doing a lot of squinting already, his head just about ready to burst.

"You haven't been answering my texts. It's annoying."

Harry glances up through bleary, sleep encrusted eyes, pulling a bemused face. "God, sorry fake boyfriend," he mocks. "And _you're_  annoying _._ "

“Thought we could go out tonight," Louis continues, ignoring Harry's refusal to accommodate him. He's dressed in a black peacoat, fringe swept artfully to one side, finger-less gloves draped on his petite hands, blue eyes searing into his. Harry momentarily finds himself staring into them a bit too intently. "Start showing off our undying love,” Louis smirks, lips twitching as he helps himself to Harry’s extra strong espresso. “Fuck, that’s bitter,” he grimaces. 

"Too much tequila," Harry mutters.

“So a _very_  rough night?” Louis grins sunnily.

Lord. Can he not do this? Smile like he's made of the fucking sun's rays. It's making this all too difficult to separate what's going on. He's dizzy with a dozen conflicting, begrudging emotions and if Louis could just stop looking like a stunning piece of art... 

Harry puts down his pen. “Look,” he sighs, pushing his hair back. “I have work to do, Louis. It should have been done days ago but I’ve been too distracted with your ridiculous plan to get on this show, and I have the fucking worst headache in the world, and so I’d really prefer it if you and your massive bum left me alone.”

"It is a good one, isn't it?" Louis lifts his bum up off his seat and  _caresses_  it right there in front of him. Harry swallows, reaching for his espresso. This is torture. "But hang on, we've barely done anything yet."

"Yeah, and it's been too much already," Harry glares. "This," he points to his notes, "is more important to me than trying and likely failing, to win money pretending to be your bloody boyfriend, alright?" 

Louis stares with reproachful eyes, crossing his arms and makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. Which is bloody annoying. Doesn’t he get uni is important to Harry? Some people _have_ to study. “Tough,” he bites. “We have a week until the deadline closes to send in an audition tape to go with the application for the producers. So we better get practicing, shouldn’t we?”

“Practicing? What exactly?” Harry answers distractedly, now scribbling down notes that are barely decipherable to his own eyes.

There’s a beat of silence. “Couple things.”

“What does that mean?” he sighs.

“Being nice to each other for a start.”

“Oh, we’re back to that again, are we?”

“Yes. That historical truce is about to come into fruition, Harold.”

“Lucky me,” Harry mumbles on an eyeroll.

Harry can feel Louis’ eyes on him as he continues to scribble and scrawl on his notepad in taut silence. "Alright," he eventually hears Louis say.

Harry looks up. “What?”

“I’ll find someone else,” Louis says slowly, eyes studying Harry closely.

A surge of alien panic fills up his chest, becoming uncomfortably tight. “What?" he blinks. 

"What I just said. I'll find someone else to do the show with. You're off the hook, Styles."

No. No, he doesn't want to be off the hook though? Shit. What does that mean? Louis' literally giving him an out. Why is he not taking it? 

"With who?"

"I was thinking that lad that hit on me the other night." Ugh, so he did try it on with him, then. "Jake, I think his name was. Seemed pretty into me, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind making some cash while pretending to go out with me, so,” Louis shrugs, tone impassive, not even attempting to sound at all smug, which is weird but that’s not what gets Harry’s attention.

Because this Jake? Preppy Gold Hair??

Fuck no. 

"No, wait," Harry says abruptly, as Louis stands up, staring down at Harry with inquisitive eyes. "I... um, no, no, it's okay. I'll do the show with you. It's fine. I’m just stressed with other stuff. But it’s fine. We’re still on for the whole fake dating for the show thing.”

Harry has no idea what's come over him. All he knows is he can't have someone else pretending to be Louis' boyfriend. He just can't. Because what if they end up going out for real? Shit. No, Harry can't let that happen. God, what does that mean? Why is he being such a possessive, needy freak?? Louis isn't even his mate, nevermind his boyfriend. Someone help his poor soul.

Louis stares, silent, before he says, "Are you sure?" Louis squints, dubiously watching Harry as Harry has an internal meltdown.

Harry nods determinedly. "Yeah."

"So, the pub later, then?" Louis asks hesitantly after another awkward silence, tone sounding softer, hopeful almost. 

"Okay,” Harry nods again.

"Right, well then,” he says, clearing his throat. “You sure you can pretend to think the sun shines out of my arse?" Louis teases.

Fuck, he kind of already does. 

"I'll do my best, but even I can't work miracles, Louis," Harry shoots back Louis’ own words. He smirks.

Louis bites his lip, smirking too. "Cool. I'll see you later baby cakes," he says, his hand trailing along his shoulder as he leaves. Harry feels the phantom touch of Louis' hand long after he's left the coffee shop, and he really doesn’t know what to think about that.

**

The pub is unusually quiet for a Wednesday evening, but the air is still humming with indie tunes and casual chatter, a few of the same, regular, attractive faces are sat by the bar, joking around with their mates and others preoccupied with their significant others, exchanging warm smiles and affectionate touches that makes Harry’s currently troubled heart pang. Louis’ cold hand brings him back to the reality as it softly brushes his wrist before entwining his fingers with Harry’s. Another pang.

“Right, showtime, Harold,” he winks, and all Harry can do is barely nod back, taking a shaky breath as they step over the threshold, Louis holding the door open for Harry with their hands still linked. Harry grips onto it tightly, but if it’s too tight, Louis doesn’t say anything nor seem to notice either, his attention immediately grabbed by Niall, Liam, Jesy, Jade, and Ed at a couple of tables in their usual spot in the corner by the bar, two tables having been pushed together, waving enthusiastically their way. Harry eyes meet Niall’s, who smirks devilishly. Arsehole.

“Remember to look like you think I’m the best thing in the universe,” Louis adds, “which obviously I am,” he grins cockily, and looking beautiful while he’s at it, caramel dusted hair artfully styled, a slight quiff pushed to one side of his forehead, and wearing a crisp white button down underneath his ebony bomber jacket, shiny brown brogues on his petite feet, immediately commanding the attention of the room, a confident edge teasing his bright-eyed smile.

This bastard could be wearing a sack and still manage to appear like the stunning, ethereal specimen he is.

Okay, this is getting embarrassing.

Thank God he’s not uttering any of this aloud, but he wants to murder his internal monologues.

“Over here, lovebirds!” calls Jade, accent thick and seemingly a tad tipsy already and it’s not even gone seven yet.

Louis takes the lead, letting his hand fall the closer they get to the table and guiding Harry with a hand on his lower back, gesturing for Harry to sit down first. Since when did Louis know how to perfect the art of being a gentleman?

“Alright, everyone,” Louis smiles brightly, teeth on display and eyes crinkling. He greets everyone and then heads to the bar, but not before he bends down and puts his mouth to Harry’s ear, murmuring, “What you having to drink, babe?”

Harry’s heart stops, eyes widening at Louis’ breath on his neck, instantly leaning into the contact as Louis’ lips lightly brushing his ear lobe, holy fuck, but he’s also deftly aware that all eyes are currently locked on them, particularly Niall and Liam’s knowing, amused gazes. Liam covers his mouth with his beer, smirking over the rim. Niall just sits there with his arms on the table, beaming like he’s just discovered a new Nandos has opened down the road.

“Um, I, er... I’ll have, um—” Shit. He’s lost the ability to speak.

“Want a gin and tonic, love?”

“Yes, please,” Harry smiles as evenly as he can, almost falling out of his chair when Louis brushes a soft hand over his flamed cheek, watches Louis stroll confidently over to the bar and throwing a wink Harry’s way, before Harry turns back to face the music.

“Right. Speak now, right now,” Jesy demands. “How the hell did this happen?”

“I’m very interested to know, I must say,” Ed says skeptically, having none of it apparently. Hmm. He supposes it would be harder to convince him since Harry bitches about Louis all the time when he speaks about him. Ed thinks they can’t stand each other, he must be completely lost.

“Um, we just... it just kind of happened,” Harry shrugs. Couldn’t Louis have waited five minutes before he left him to deal with this interrogation? That little shit.

“How? I thought you guys hated each other? This looks mad, mate,” Ed says, appearing baffled. “I can’t get my head round it.”

“Well, I left the club early the other night because I’d realised how I felt about Louis. Like, really felt about him. I know, I know it’s weird, and it seems out of the blue,” he says again, when Ed gives him a doubtful look. It’s starting to grate on his nerves, to be honest. It’s not that much of a stretch is it?

“It wasn’t that out the blue, mate,” Jesy says, smirking. “We know you’ve had a crush on him forever.”

“I didn’t!” Ed says, eyes widening. 

“You must need your eyes checked, mate,” Niall says, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, I have, yeah. And, I guess I mistook all my annoyance towards Louis for dislike when it was probably because I’ve liked him all this time, and I never fully dared to think about it too much because I was scared Louis wouldn’t feel the same back.”

There we go, the lies are pouring out.

“So, what happened? Did you go round to Louis’ to tell him?” Jade grins, excitedly hanging off of Harry’s every word.

“No, um. Louis came round to mine. He’d a change of heart too,” he says, trying to muster the affectionate tone Louis’ already adopted about him. “He told me how he felt about me and I was relieved he felt the same and we just... it just happened... I don’t know what else I can say without getting too graphic, come on!” Harry’s starting to lose it now. Where the hell is Louis?

“You slept together?” Liam says, eyebrows shooting up, before he falls into giggles, Niall joining in with him.

“Yes,” Harry mutters, “we did, and it was the most amazing night ever. Anything else?”

“I don’t know. I’m still having trouble, man,” Ed sighs. “Just... you two? I don’t get it. No offence,” he smiles sheepishly.

Harry has an overwhelming urge to tell him to shut up. Jesus! What more can he say?

“There we go, love,” Louis coos, handing Harry his drink and Harry doesn’t miss the way everyone purses their lips in an effort to stop from laughing as Louis gazes down at him, mesmerised. Harry blinks, mouth slack, before he finds his brain again.

“Thanks, Lou,” Harry says, testing the nickname in his mouth. It sounds nice, and he presses a quick chaste kiss to Louis’ lips, immediately freezing and going cold all over when he realises what he just did. He just _kissed_ him. But that’s what they’re supposed to be doing, isn’t it? Louis stares back at him with stunned eyes for a few heart stopping moments before he quickly recovers, and presses another kiss to Harry’s open mouth, parting with an obnoxious puckered sound. Harry thinks it must be his imagination that Louis’ thumb brushed his bottom lip before Harry blinks his eyes open.

“Aww!” The girls coo, hands resting under chins and elbows on the table.

Liam and Niall mimic them exaggeratedly.

Harry and Louis roll their eyes.

Ed just looks confused.

Harry's definitely confused as he turns to Louis and stares at his contented profile, watches as his mouth opens and his eyes crinkle as he laughs. 

**

Harry woke up in a foul mood.

The reason for this foul mood? One certain Louis Tomlinson and his incessant drunk texting during the night, about Harry can only guess what. The texts mainly consisted of random keysmashing and phrases and quotes Harry can only assume were a dig at his English Lit major—that and the fact Louis was likely high as a kite. Needless to say, Harry did not appreciate Louis' newfound way of annoying the living daylights out of him.

It’s Monday morning and Harry’s waiting on the steps, practically glowering in front of the library for Louis, empty coffee cup clasped between his knee caps, and another sitting beside him for Louis, probably tepid now, and chin tucked into his scarf as the chilly winds caress his cheeks and ruffle his curls, Arcade Fire crooning in his earbuds as his eyes scan the bareness of the trees, surprised to see there's a cluster of white and pink buds forcing their way to blossom this early for spring. 

After last Wednesday’s awkward first pub drink as ‘boyfriends’, their friends have generally left them alone, only seen them in passing, and every time they do, Louis moves with lightning speed, finding Harry’s hand, or his hip, or his arm to squeeze, fluttering those insanely long eyelashes at him. Meanwhile, Harry stands there dumbstruck, before rolling his eyes which earns him a deadly scowl from Louis in return, eyes widened with irritation and lips pursed in a thin line. He really isn’t playing along much at all with this yet, and he wonders when Louis is going to say something about it. He’s bound to get mad sooner or later; he didn’t reply to his text, so maybe he’s going to give him an earful this morning.

"Harold," Louis greets, eyes falling on Harry's coffee as he turns around and finds Louis' Vans by the other coffee cup. He watches as Louis picks it up, smiling happily. "Thanks, baby cakes," he says, taking a generous sip as he tips his head back. Harry watches the movement of his throat with thirsty eyes, and not for the coffee. Louis' just so cute, and gorgeous and rugged and razor sharp all at once and Harry has to loosen his scarf.

"You're welcome, pumpkin," Harry quips. 

Louis levels him with a look that says he will end his days. "Call me that again and that'll be the last thing you ever say, Curly."

"Stop calling me that," Harry grumbles, he says, head lolling to the side, and stifling a yawn with his scarlet sleeve covered hand.

"Stop calling me a bloody orange vegetable then! Wait, or is it a fruit? I can never remember..."

"It might be classed as a plant or something," Harry shrugs absently, fiddling with the plastic lid on his cup, almost dozing off because this great prat kept him awake all night—and not for the reason Harry would rather. Ahem.

Boo. Life is cruel. (As are Louis' legs in those jeans.) 

Anyway. 

"Really?"

"I don't bloody know, do I?! Maybe you're thinking of tomatoes," Harry practically shrieks. Who cares anyway? Good grief.

"Nah, I think it's a veg—"

"Oh, shut up, Louis! I don't care! Jesus, you're going to bore me to death at this rate."

"God, alright. Someone's in a mood," Louis says rolling his eyes, popping his hip out, before taking another slurp from his cup, sniffing once, before his eyes fall back down to Harry.

"Well, maybe," Harry starts, "that's because _somebody_ kept me fucking awake all night," he glowers. 

Louis' brows pinch. "Who?" he says cautiously. "You can't be dating anybody, Harry," he snaps, sitting down with a hard thump.

"What? I'm not. I meant you with your bloody drunk texting, you idiot."

Louis continues to frown. "I mean it. You'll blow it otherwise. You can date whoever you want after this is done with, yeah? You're supposed to be dating me, remember?"

"How could I forget," Harry mumbles, eyelids fluttering closed, until he feels a warm weight pull him up under his elbows. "What're you doing?" Harry demands, squinting.

"Quick, hug me or something," Louis hisses, eyes locked with his.

"Why?" Harry frowns.

"Jake's coming over."

"Jake?" 

And then Louis' hauling Harry's neck down to him and tightly wrapping his arms around him, Louis' warmth immediately enveloping Harry as he stiffens, because what the hell? But slowly, Harry starts to relent and wraps his own arms around Louis' waist, his hands almost covering the entirety of Louis' back, fitting their bodies' snugly together. Harry ignores how good it feels, but after a while of this, Harry shifts, getting dangerously close to smelling Louis' hair and inhaling it like a loon, the strands of which are tickling his cheek but then Louis seems to realise they've been hugging longer than is necessary, seeing as this Jake kid has passed them and gone inside already. He loosens his hold around Harry's shoulders.

"You can let go of me now," Harry murmurs into his hair, and Louis jumps back like he's been burned. 

"Well," Louis clears his throat, "I think that did it."

"Did what?" 

"Got rid of him. He's been chatting me up all week."

A stab of jealousy runs through Harry, and no. Nope. He will not get jealous. This is ridiculous. "Did you not want him to?" Harry says, and if his tone is hopeful, it's a complete accident.

Louis taps himself down then, retrieving an almost empty packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his olive green coat, flicking his fringe out of his eyes. He goes to light one and Harry watches as he takes the tip of the stick into his dainty mouth, a faint smattering of stubble bordering his lips and chin.

"No, I wanted him too. But it'd be a bit difficult seeing as I'm pretending to date your lanky arse."

Harry sighs, throwing his head back, eyeing him with distaste. "You're so bloody irritating," he mumbles. "You know that?"

"I know," Louis smirks around the cigarette in his mouth.

Harry is irritable and tired and feeling a tad dramatic, so he plonks himself onto the pavement and lays himself flat on the hard, concrete ground. It makes his bum cold and he can feel Louis’ incredulous eyes on him.

“What are you doing down there, you weirdo?"

Harry shushes him, and closes his eyes, clasping his hands together in his lap. A few seconds later he feels Louis lie down next to him, mirroring his position on the pavement outside the front steps of the library. People pass them by with incredulous glances, loud sniggers and confused frowns, walking right past their heads to get to the library's entrance which they are pretty much blocking.

“Who do you think you are? Noah from The Notebook or something?” Louis half-whispers. "I know we're not quite in the road, but you're taking up the whole patio, you great, big oaf."

“Have you seen The Notebook, Louis?” Harry opens his eyes, smiles because this is amusing information for someone who puts on a tough bravado that Harry absolutely sees through.

“I grew up with five women in the house, Harry. Of course I’ve seen The Notebook,” he says, sounding mildly offended.

Harry hums. “I think you watched it by yourself... and cried.”

He turns his head to face Louis, whose eyes are narrowed. Harry looks away, staring up at the cloudy, grey sky. 

"I may have shed a tear, yes," Louis mutters.

“Aww,” Harry coos, earning him a smack in the arm.

"Shut it, Styles, or you'll lose a limb."

"Always threatening me," Harry says on an eyeroll. "I should call the authorities considering the amount of death threats I've received from you. You even sent a newspaper lettered note through my door once saying, 'I'll kill you'." 

"Oh, yeah," Louis laughs, lifting his chin up with a breathy and high pitched cackles, eyes crinkling.

"It's not funny," Harry deadpans, trying to control a smirk.

"It's called banter, love," Louis grins. "You'll get used to it." 

"You're insufferable," Harry says, turning his head to face Louis again, only to find Louis' already watching him, gaze quiet. "But, I guess you've not been completely terrible to be around lately. Just so you know," he says nonchalantly under his breath, instantly regretting his words, scared of Louis' reply. 

"Yeah, well _you_ are. You're a nightmare," Louis scoffs, but he smirks immediately after, and Harry's taut body relaxes, captivated by the blue of his eyes, and the wisps of caramel strands of his hair ruffling with the wind. 

And Harry really needs to find that grip he's lost.

**

The next week or so passes by quickly.

They're currently in Louis' living room of his student house, and after copious amounts of tea and numerous snarky comments, they get through about thirty  _this or that_  questions over the afternoon, before admitting defeat and sprawling out on Louis’ sofa with socked feet and thick cotton jumpers on (since the heating is broken and none of Louis’ housemates can afford to pay the bill to fix it just yet). Speaking of, Louis’ housemates are out, whom are far too noisy and perpetually high all the time according to Louis—which Harry thinks is a bit rich, considering Louis is both of these things (he’s not really, actually. He’s high only when they’re out partying, but the noise... yeah, Louis’ loud. There’s no denying that one.)

Louis’ wearing a burnt orange jumper, a size too big, wisps of his dusty golden fringe falling in his eyes. He’s curled up on the opposite end of the sofa and Louis’ toes are resting on Harry’s thigh, who’s propped his back up against a pillow on the armrest. It’s cramped and Louis keeps kicking him like the annoying pest he is, but it’s nice and it’s calm, and Harry has found he’s quite enjoying being in Louis’ proximity these days. Their bickering has died down drastically since Harry learned that Louis turns into a grumpy nightmare when he’s cold (though he’s not too bad now, he’ll give him that), and he’s realised that Louis really doesn’t like it when Harry tries to correct him, or when he tries to tidy up around Louis’ flat, but other than that, Louis has surprisingly taken to being in Harry’s company too.

Over two weeks they’ve been at the getting to know you game now, and so far they’ve managed to correctly answer most of the quick fire questions they shoot randomly each other’s way. Louis will have a cup of tea awaiting Harry’s arrival on the rarer occasions they’re at his place instead of Harry’s dorm, and a couple of times, he’s even offered Harry his sofa if Niall is  _occupied_ in theirs.

Which. Yeah, that’s a thing that’s actually happened. He’s still shocked.

Louis Tomlinson offering up his own living space for Harry to sleep in? It actually happened. And yeah, it’s still a lot strange and still a lot awkward between them, but Harry is grateful all the same. 

Harry can’t quite believe their progress.

The fact that he’s  _enjoying_  Louis’ company, rather than tolerating it, and has willingly spent a whole Saturday afternoon with him is, well, a mindfuck in itself.

They used Louis’ glittery make-shift paddles to quiz each other on their aimed identical answers, the glitter an unnecessary add-on, but Louis loves the stuff apparently—another thing Harry never would have guessed before—it’s oddly adorable, the way Louis was mesmerized and giggling like an idiot as he sprinkled Harry’s curls with it.

What happened afterwards though was an eye opener, and reminded him that he's still all too attracted to Louis.

It involved an intense tickle fight, and Harry being pinned to the floor by a delighted Louis, mirth glittering in his blue eyes, and ended in Harry scrambling off the floor in great haste to get to the bathroom and hide his raging boner after Louis straddled his hips and would not stop wriggling the fuck around over his crotch. He was in there for twenty fucking minutes and came out red-faced when he realised what Louis probably thought he was doing in there.

He nearly died of mortification.

Is that a real thing? It was a very real thing for Harry, anyway.

So, things are still confusing and bewildering to Harry in that department. Because, yes. Harry has still a massive crush on Louis. He’s accepted it. (And apparently so has everybody else...)  But now things are extra confusing because before he thought his crush was purely based on Louis’ physical attractiveness and how badly he was sexually interested in him.

Now though, after having witnessed how cosy and precious he looks in warm knitted clothes and how soft his hair is when he’s not got any product in it, or seen the sleep creases and marks near his mouth and on his cheeks when he’s just woken up, or the way his eyes crinkle in the corners when he’s genuinely smiling, and also having heard the sweet tinkling sound of his actual laugh...

Well. Harry is feeling extremely conflicted and baffled and mildly terrified of these new discoveries.

Because admitting to himself that he actually _likes_  being around Louis now, _wants_  to, even, because yes, Harry actively seeks out Louis to hang out, and not just for fake dating purposes either, and that’s just...

Look, it should be this earth shattering moment, alright? After ten years of intense mutual dislike, it should be feeling a lot more, well... more? Shouldn’t it?

But if his extreme knee-jerk reaction to Louis getting chatted up at the pub yesterday evening is anything to go by, it’s not really a surprise, is it?

Louis had been surprise greeted by an old college friend, Aiden. Apparently he’s enrolled for a Masters. Harry didn’t ask in what, too stuck on the fact that he remembered him well, was sure he’d seen Louis with him on many occasions during their college days, bumping into them outside the back of the building, passing spliffs back and forth and getting rather cosy for just friends. Harry can still remember the burning jealousy he’d felt when he first saw them together in the corridor, a few days after he’d almost hooked up with Louis, and still miserably hung up on the way Louis has kissed him so desperately, the way Louis’ hips had been seeking friction against his, the way his hands were moving all over and under his skin. 

It was a horrible, sinking feeling and Harry stalked home, incredibly agitated, and sulked the entire evening, moping on his bed while he listened to Adele on repeat. Which was ridiculous; they hadn’t even had a relationship, just a one-off almost sexual encounter. But still, maybe Harry was pining for what he imagined they could be. It's fair to say seventeen year old Harry was very besotted with Louis back then.

And when he saw Aiden last night, it brought back those pining, confusing teenage feelings, and Harry immediately turned into the green eyed monster.

“We got up to all sorts, didn’t we, Lou?” Aiden had giggled, sitting opposite Harry, Liam and Niall, with Louis in his goddamn lap, wriggling around it and entwining his fingers clumsily with Aiden's, his cheeks flushed and very, very tipsy. “It’s so good to see this little one again,” Aiden cooed, grinning cheesily and squeezing his arms tightly around Louis’ stomach, revealing a slither of Louis’ smooth, tanned skin on his tummy.

"Who you calling little?" Louis shrieked giggled.

“You are. You're cute," Aiden said, Harry's eyes locked on his arms tightening around Louis' waist. "What are you doing these days, other than uni, I mean, anyway?” Aiden asked, murmuring the words close to his ear. Any closer and he’d have been mauling Louis' earlobes in front of his eyes.

Harry practically broke the glass he was holding in his hands, could feel Niall and Liam’s tense, pitying gazes on the side of his face.

“Me,” Harry interrupted flatly, abrupt. 

“What?” Aiden blinked, smile slipping, appearing shocked. Good. "Are you two, like, together?"

Louis immediately hopped out of his lap and stuck himself to Harry’s side, almost tripping over a chair in the process, a dazed, sleepy smile still plastered to his flushed face. “Yep! This is what I got,” he announced loudly, giggling as he hugged Harry’s waist and Harry’s hand instantly went to card through his hair, sticking up in adorable disarray, holding onto him possesively. Yeah, Harry was losing it. A great red mist had taken over which didn't even surprise him. He hated Louis getting up close and personal with strangers, let alone past, possible exes. 

“Shit, sorry, mate. I didn’t realise. You should have said something,” Aiden smiled ruefully. 

“You didn’t give me a chance to tell,” Harry shot back, a passive aggressive smile stuck to his mouth as his green eyes glared.

Aiden was quieter after that, staying only another ten minutes or so and then said his goodbyes and see you arounds and Harry gave Louis a piece of his mind.

“What was that about?” he hissed, after Liam went to the loo, and Niall got another round in.

“What?” Louis snapped, still hugging his side in the booth.

“You could have rumbled us then. Anyone we know could have seen! You’re supposed to be dating me, remember? Not slobbering all over him,” he muttered.

“Fake dating you, Harry,” Louis scowled, releasing Harry from his grip. Harry missed the contact immediately, and sat there in angry silence as they waited for the lads to come back, finished their drinks, and Louis went home with Liam, as Harry miserably watched Louis hanging off of Liam’s back and demanding to be picked up.

He was jealous. Crazily so. He _likes_ Louis. It's official. And Harry is so fucked up by that, that instead of running for the hills, it spurs on the next thing that comes out of Harry’s mouth. “Um, what are you doing later? Tonight?” he asks, trying his best to sound casual. And fails.

Louis’ on his phone, head resting on the sofa cushion and his socked toes still pressing into the top of Harry’s thigh. “Don’t know yet,” he murmurs, eyes glued to his phone. It’s been buzzing incessantly for the last hour. Harry pouts, scarily already kind of used to Louis’ attention on him, and now it’s not, and Harry is being a petulant child.

“Oh, okay. Well, um...” Harry trails off, hesitation creeping up on him, his heart rate speeds up considerably. Why though? (Fuck. He knows very well why.) “I thought you might be up for going clubbing later? We haven’t been out properly for a while. I was thinking you might want to go to  _Rosie’s_?” He pauses. “With me, I mean,” he tacks on, to make sure his intentions are clear. He wants them to go  _together_.

Louis stills, eyes briefly flitting up from his phone and back down again, face annoyingly unreadable. Harry hates it when he doesn’t know what he’s thinking when he gets that guarded, carefully blank expression on his face.  

“Yeah, why not,” Louis shrugs after what feels like an eternity. His voice doesn’t exactly sound keen though.

Which, okay. That’s to be expected, right? He can’t expect Louis to develop feelings for Harry overnight. Not when Harry is the one with the decade long crush.

Still, though.

His innards are sharp and pressing hard on other bits of flesh and organs hanging out inside in his chest, and it’s not a pleasant feeling in the slightest. It actually quite stings.

“Cool,” Harry tries.

Louis doesn’t reply, only waits a second before he shifts and hauls himself up, tells Harry he’s going for a shower and that he’ll text him.

Harry deflates like a balloon, really hoping Louis does text him later, and silently leaves his flat, slinking out the door with a heaviness he’s not felt before.

**

Louis did text him, instructing him to meet him inside and that he’d be turning up around nine-ish, and okay, maybe Harry was hoping together meant actually  _go together_  to the club, but hey, at this point Harry will take anything he can get.

The club is pumping with flashing neon lights, scantily clad, attractive bodies and terrible dance music, and Harry’s been sitting in a booth with Niall and Liam for the past twenty minutes, watching with hawk like eyes at the way the same guy from the pub—(what was his name? Jake? Well. Him)—has been circling Louis like a lion would its prey. Louis, lovely Louis, who’s currently dancing with Perrie, and it’s driving Harry fucking insane.

Preppy Gold Hair, that is. Not Perrie. He’s been smiling with fond in his eyes whenever Louis and Perrie interact. No, it’s that fucking prat with lust filled eyes aimed at Louis’ bum that’s got Harry in a Mood.

He glares as Preppy Gold Hair finally plucks up the courage to tap him on the shoulder, grips Louis’ arms and turns a giggly, flushed Louis around to face him, fringe wet and sticking to his forehead.

And now they’re dancing with, well...  _on_  each other. That hug and the few cheek pecks haven't deterred him then.

Harry wants to scream.

Louis’ barely said two words to him since he got here, and Harry is confused because he thought they were getting somewhere? He thought they were mates now? Mates who are pretending to date each other, and it looks like Louis has forgotten.

At least it’s just Liam and Niall here tonight. Everyone else seems to be at a house party held by some post-grad guy named Greg.

“Oi, you look like you’re about to murder that kid over there,” Niall says, shoving his shoulder, but Harry can’t keep his eyes off Louis and Jake.

“Harry!” Niall shouts again.

“What?” he snaps, feeling ready to punch something.

“Jesus, someone’s jealous,” Liam smirks. “You should really go and get your boyfriend back,” he teases.

“Well, that guy’s practically dry humping him,” Harry pouts.

“Go and do something about it then,” Niall shrugs.

“I can’t just go over there. Louis will kill me.”

"You're supposed to be keeping up the pretense of being together, aren't you?" Liam frowns. "If you don't want people asking questions about Louis flirting with other guys, you better get over there."

"Maybe you should kiss him," Niall smirks. "Show that guy that Lou's taken." Niall sits back with his drink, biting the straw of his pink cocktail, sparkly umbrellas sticking out the top of the fancy glass, looking far too smug and ready for some entertainment. Any minute now he'll be getting out the popcorn.

Fine. Harry downs his vodka and coke and marches over to the bar, where Preppy Gold Hair, aka Jake (ugh he looks like an utter douche) stands, trying to worm his hands all over Louis' waist, plants one flat on Louis' bum cheek and _slaps_ it! Louis actually looks kind of shocked, eyes widening and posture stiffening. He takes a step back and Jake takes a step forward, and fuck no.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? That's my boyfriend you're coming on to," Harry all but growls. Louis looks like he wants to be literally anywhere else. Harry places his hands on either side of Louis' waist and gently pulls him toward his front so that they're chest to chest.

"Really?" Jake says dubiously, smirking. "Okay," he dismisses. 

Fucker.

"Yes, really," Harry hisses, and then he leans down to cup Louis' jaw. Louis' mouth goes slack and stares resolutely back at Harry with those blue eyes that taunt him and without thinking, Harry presses a lingering kiss to Louis' open mouth, ignoring the idiot with his mouth agape next to them, and kisses Louis with careful precision, or as careful as he can while quite tipsy, presses more firmly, deepening the kiss, inhaling through his nose and breathing in Louis until he can't feel his legs anymore. 

He finally lets off, and locks his eyes with Louis' widened, slightly stunned gaze.

Shit. He went too far, didn't he? He's just about to start apologising profusely before Louis reattaches his mouth to Harry's and kisses him back, deep and urgent. Arms wind around each other and their feet are practically standing on top of the other's, but Harry can't think of anything else but the fact he wants Louis' mouth on him for as long as possible.

The kiss breaks off far too soon, and Louis' looking up at Harry like he has no idea what they're doing, or why they're doing it, uttering out a breathless, "I've gotta go. I'll see you later."

Harry stands there alone, Jake long gone, and watches as Louis tries to escape through the endless, cramped bodies, dancing and oblivious.

Shit. What just happened? 

**

“I bring gifts!” Louis announces, as he barges into Harry's dorm around one-ish, holding two coffees and two bags of croissants in both of his small hands, a bright grin on his face. His eyes are bluer today, Harry notices. But he’s not long woken up, so he can be forgiven for letting these things cloud his greater judgment, yes? Yes. He’s decided. Besides, he seems much more chipper than yesterday—which is an obvious plus—and he certainly doesn't seem mad or awkward about what happened last night—which is a relief—so Harry forces himself to dart around the flashbacks of Louis' kiss circling around his head, and tries to concentrate on the work on his desk he wants to get through. Though with Louis here, something tells him that won't be happening now.

(Also, he wants to bring up what happened. He just has to pick the right moment as to not scare the tiny hedgehog away.)

“Right, so, um,” Louis starts, clearing his throat as his shuts the door with his foot, “slight change of plan,” he winces, a smile creeping round the edges. “There’s something else I need you to do for me. Another favour,” Louis says, sheepish, which is new for him. He distractedly fiddles with his fringe, not looking Harry in the eye, which is new as well. Louis loves to make eye contact, even when he's mad at him, which he doesn't seem to be. Another plus. Still, though, Harry feels awkward. Obviously, he can pass it off for show seeing as they're pretending to date but...Harry isn't pretending about everything, is he?

Harry turns to look at him, already apprehensive as he clutches the coffee cup he's helped himself to. “Go on,” he says slowly.

“You’re accompanying me to my mum’s next weekend,” Louis says. “And we’re going to tell them we’re together, that we’re going on the show, and oh, we’re staying over as well, and we’re going to have a brilliant time! Yeah!" he yells, grinning falsely, with just as false enthusiasm.

Harry stares at Louis, who stares back, fake smile slipping.

“Yes?”

“Excuse me?”

“Harry—”

“Louis, no!" Harry whines, eyebrows knitting. "That is not happening. You’re lucky I’m agreeing to the show when everyone is going to see it, but to lie to your family’s faces too? Nuh uh. No way.”

A childish, petulant expression on Louis’ face suddenly appears as he sits down on Harry’s bed. “Please,” he begs. Harry won’t lie, he likes the sound of Louis begging, so he lets it go on a little bit longer. He expected he’d have to do this anyway. Louis’ just lucky his mum loves Harry, despite their less than amiable school past. Their mums always got on like a house on fire, which only pissed off Harry and Louis more. “Please!”

Harry shakes his head, snatching the bag of croissants out of Louis' loose grip.

“It won’t be hard! We don’t even have to kiss," (Harry tries not to flinch at the word _kiss_ ), "in front of them or anything! Just talk about me like I’m the light of your life, stay close and they'll all believe it. I know mum has always thought we’d get together some day anyway so—”

Whoa. Hold up. “Wait, what?” 

Louis meets Harry’s bewildered gaze. Louis shrugs. “Yeah, I don’t know,” he waves vaguely. “She always had the idea of us in her head. Your mum too, apparently.”

Well, this is bloody news to Harry.

“My mum’s never said anything," Harry says incredulously. Because, Jesus. Since when has this been a thing? "I mean, I guess she tried to convince me you weren’t that bad after school, whenever I'd told her you'd pranked me again—" Louis rolls his eyes—"and were just teasing me or whatever. But, no that didn't really come up," he frowns.

"Oh, well. Looks like our mums won't be surprised then. It's fine. It'll be easy," Louis shrugs happily, taking a bite out of his croissant and chewing delicately, his jaw working and Harry going hazy eyed as he stares at the pretty spectacle. 

"Oi. Earth to Harry? Your home planet called. They want you home by nine."

"What?" Harry blinks.

"You zoned out, mate," Louis says, pulling a befuddled face. 

"Oh, sorry." God, get a grip, Styles.

"So? Will you come?"

Harry pauses.

"Don't you want to talk about last night?" Harry asks hesitantly, studying Louis' expression very carefully.

"What about it?" he shrugs, apparently faking obliviousness.

Okay. Perhaps they aren't going to talk about the kiss that was definitely not just for show, and definitely not pretending on Harry's part, but whatever. Harry looks down, pretends to be busy scrolling through his phone. "I'm still in the middle of the last favour you asked me to do, Lou." It's a slip of the tongue. Lou. Harry glances up and finds Louis' face frozen, staring at him oddly.

Harry sighs, "Oh, fine," he drawls.

"Thank you," Louis says, relieved. "It'll be fine, promise. The weekend will go by in no time."

Hmm. Harry doubts that.

**

Their application was accepted. They found out today that the producers loved their audition tape, (which Harry was convinced was an unbelievably corny, horrendous piece of film and he never wants to watch it again for as long as he lives) and have invited them to a recording towards the end of March to film their pre-show reel and then film the actual game the day after, apparently putting them up in a hotel down the road for it. (Harry refuses to think about sharing a room at this point in time, or god forbid a _bed_ ).

Louis suggested they go out and celebrate but Harry literally does not want to move from his spot on his bed with one starlight speckled, warm, honeyed boy. (It’s science. Louis just is. He wants to be left alone with this troubling observation, currently consuming his thoughts.)

Yeah, that's a thing. The cuddling. Harry doesn't know how it started happening but he's going with it and sure as hell isn't going to make a big deal out of it.

Niall is scurrying around their dorm, rummaging through his drawer and slips on an ivory shirt, patterned with violet flowers. Harry’s sure it belongs to him, but can’t be bothered to care when Louis is giggling into his ear, murmuring stupid jokes that give Harry’s a run for their money. Niall sprays half a ton of aftershave over himself, and feebly gives his hair a quick once over.

“I’m meeting Li down the pub,” he announces. “You two lovebirds coming or what?” Niall asks, already pocketing his phone and jingling his keys.

It takes another full minute for them to answer and even then all Harry replies with is a weak “Hmm?”, distracted by  Louis telling some ridiculous story that Harry’s already convinced is made up, and Harry is involuntarily leaning into Louis’ warmth as his mouth whispers soft breaths against the chilly skin of Harry’s neck.

It’s freezing you see, and their fan heater is broken so they’re both draped in thick blankets that Harry’s mum insisted he take with him for the winter months, and they’re snuggled up and absorbing body heat and Harry is distantly aware his roommate may have just asked him something.

“Right,” Niall says, raising his eyebrows almost comically. “I’m gonna leave yous two neglectful bastards to it. I’ll make you pay for this later, Hazza. You’re not even listening to me are you?”

Niall sighs loudly.

Harry sees Niall pad out the door in his peripherals, and absently registers the door click shut, realises he's not even attempted to hurl an indignant insult his way because the only thing that’s soaking up Harry’s cells, and burying its magnetic essence beneath his goose pimpled skin is Louis.

And he’s not even had a drop of alcohol this evening, even though it’s almost nine.

No, this is all Harry’s completely sober thoughts, and shit, he’s not at all equipped to deal with this fluttering warmth that’s taken up residence in his tummy as of late.

Because at this very moment, Louis is so close, his legs draped over Harry’s lap, God, is practically sitting  _in_ his lap, and Harry’s hands are wrapped around both of Louis’ delicate, slightly cold ankles.

But this is just about building up a believable foundation right? To become accustomed to the other in every way, because their body language has to scream  _couple couple couple_. Right? That’s why they’re currently sprawled out together like this? Touching. Laughing. Whispering into each other’s ears?

Not because Louis likes Harry back.

It’s all for the show. For the TV show they’re trying to get on. To fake a relationship to win money. Lots of money, that will take care of all their worries for the foreseeable future.

Right? _Right_? It’s just simple method acting. That’s what it is. Of course it is.

Shit.

But the way Louis' being with him right now, so soft and cute and affectionate, and literally burrowing into him, cuddling into his side?? That's got to mean something? Louis must be feeling some of what Harry's feeling too. He has to be. There's no one to fake it for. It's just them. But if that's true and Louis does feel something back... he can’t think about the possibility of what that means, doesn’t even know how to feel about it being anything other than pretend, because—

Louis’ so close to Harry, so impossibly  _close._

And it’s all Harry can think about and he can’t bloody focus _,_  not with Louis’ wonderfully plush body heat pushed up against him like this, not while he smells inexplicably like the vanilla scented body wash he probably used earlier when he was in  _Harry’s_  shower, (because yes, Louis is in Harry’s dorm so much these days that he’s even washing and getting ready here too), and not when Hell may have frozen over under Harry’s nose, because he’s actually relishing the fact he has Louis’ attention in the palm of his hand. 

It’s like Louis’ lost all of his inhibitions recently, and the floodgates have opened, the drawbridge has been lowered, the door has been left unlocked, because Louis’ been acting so  _affectionate_  lately, so tactile and openly physical.

(For the method acting, obviously.)

Harry was so startled the first time Louis unceremoniously threw his leg over his lap while out having coffee with the boys—demonstrating no discomfort whatsoever, even with the boys around and their curious, scrutinizing gazes locked on them—that Harry spilled his tea all down the front of his white tee shirt, scowling when Liam and Niall were in delighted fits, and Louis, without even being asked, merely got up and fetched him a bunch of paper napkins, gave him an amused grin and a sweetly spoken, “nevermind, mate.”

Harry basically melted into the coffee bar’s sofa as he blinked repeatedly at the sound of Louis’ soft, husky voice.

And he hugs him regularly in public now too. So that’s a thing. Whenever they meet up Louis goes straight in, wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, and Harry immediately accommodates him, bending his knees slightly so that Louis’ feet stay planted flat on the ground, and wraps his own arms snugly around Louis’ waist.

Now, Harry shivers when Louis laughs over the sensitive spot just under his ear. Louis jerks, eyes widening minutely, a full out grin spreading over his caramel skin, crinkles appearing in the corners of his cerulean eyes, that have a smidgen of green in them too he’s noticed. He can count the number of eyelashes Louis has if he wanted to. They might be his favourite thing about his appearance, and that’s saying a lot, since Louis’ body is literally a temple.

And what is wrong with him? He’s being so embarrassing. He’s starting to think his coffee was spiked earlier and Niall is likely the main suspect, probably made it Irish, because who knows what possesses Harry to bring up what he says next.

“You know, we’re gonna have to look like we kiss on the regular, Louis,” he says lowly, catches the way Louis’ body stiffens, his thighs pressed to Harry’s. 

Harry bites back a pleased beam.

It’s not until Louis’ parted mouth starts to upturn in the corners, producing a devilish smirk that he realises his mistake.

“Harry,” he says, slow and teasing, “we  _have_ kissed before.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Harry breathes, smiling nervously, mouth suddenly dry as sandpaper, as his vision locks on Louis’ flirtatiously poised lips, remembers how they tasted, how they felt so soft against his, and hastily flits back up to his eyes which stare back at him with an intensity that has Harry’s pulse skipping, erratic and jumpy, his blood flowing with sludgy pumps through his veins.

“Doesn’t hurt to give it another go though?” Harry says, in no way casually, very clearly asking to kiss him. Fuck. He is so embarrassing. What the hell was that? Kill him now.

Louis just smirks back at him. At least someone find’s Harry’s sheer desperation funny. His hair is fluffier than normal today, softer tresses hovering just above his stunning lengthy lashes. Harry’s gaze sweeps over them momentarily before he lands back on Louis’ lips with stuttered breaths.

Louis visibly swallows, slowly drags his fingers across his forehead, brushing his fringe out of his eyes, still staring at Harry, unblinking, glossy eyes assessing, and then Harry freezes, his entire body rigid as the slightly cold pads of Louis’ fingers press around Harry’s wrist.

Louis wordlessly gauges Harry’s reaction, maybe for a cue to move things along further... which is...

Yeah.

But all Harry does is continue to helplessly, obsessively stare back.

“No, yeah. Doesn’t hurt to practice a bit more though. For the cameras? For the intro reel?” Louis suggests, tentatively, watching him closely, and angling his head and then he's ghosting a soft, barely there kiss to Harry’s already parted, awaiting lips, eyelids flickering as Louis’ touch his. He’s kind of hovering, balancing on the edge before Harry’s mouth, Louis’ own edging closer, and he’s grinning brightly now, teasingly, but instead of kissing him properly, Louis just gently brushes his lips over the bow of Harry’s mouth.

Harry can’t wait any longer. 

So he kisses him, hard and feverish, and then Louis is suddenly pushing Harry down with determined hands that slide over his shoulders, pulling at the cotton fabric of Harry’s lavender jumper, exposing the smooth, pale skin of his collarbones, and plants his mouth there.

Harry gasps, feels Louis’ teeth form a grin against his flesh.

Instantly, Harry leans up and connects his mouth back to Louis’, allows Louis to completely drape his body over his, but Harry’s hands stumble, clasping at Louis’ back reverently, gingerly, mouth going slack.

Because what? What is  _happening? Is this happening?_

“Louis,” Harry breathes mid-kiss. “What are we...” Another kiss. “...doing?”

Louis shushes him. “Practicing, idiot,” mumbles against his lips.

Practicing?

Right then. Good to know.

Louis opens his mouth and presses a deep kiss to Harry’s lips, then several of them, and it’s like the room starts spinning faster with every slide of Louis’ tongue, like he’s floating through the air with every feverish suck of his lips on his, stark desire pooling in his gut, feet sliding on the bedsheets as he fights for leverage.

And it’s like he’s suddenly seventeen again, and all he can think about is the boy above him, rolling his hips, and kissing down the column of his neck as Harry bucks up to get some friction, and lets slip an embarrassing mewling noise when Louis gives him what his body is asking for, grinding down purposefully with such a firm and steady pace that Harry can’t think.

This is not practicing.

“Louis—” Harry groans, gripping onto his shoulders as Louis’ weight grinds down.

“Shut up,” Louis breathes.

Louis lifts Harry’s jumper up and rolls it up to his neck, sucking wet kisses to his heaving chest, tongue teasingly licking over his nipples. Harry buries his face in Louis' shoulder and moans, the sound muffled as Louis continues to kiss him while maintaining his thrusts over his fully hard length, the thin fabric of Harry’s jogging bottoms doing nothing to slow down his mad lust, Louis’ jeans roughly gliding over his crotch in what Harry now thinks is an agonizingly too slow pace.

Harry fumbles to undo Louis’ jeans and Louis stops momentarily as he wriggles out of them, Harry pulling them quickly down over his bum, jeans half way down his legs. Louis speedily rids himself of his t-shirt and settles back down on him, Harry too fucked out to even drink in the glorious sight of Louis topless. Because the feeling of Louis’ length in just his boxers is too much, but he wants more, always wants more. He stops them and they laugh briefly as they fight to pull off Harry's jumper. When it's off, Harry slips his hands into Louis' boxers and grips onto his bum, kneading at the bare flesh as they kiss and moan and grind relentlessly.

“Faster,” Harry gasps, panting hard as moves his hands up to card his fingers through Louis’ hair, cradling his head and pressing it against the base of Harry’s throat, every moan and pant and desperate sound Louis makes travelling straight to his dick. “Come on. Louis, please. Faster."

Louis' hips snap and he gives it to him, grinds relentless. “Fuck,” Louis says, breathless. “Shit," he moans, grinding down even harder against Harry. "You feel so good on me," he whines.

Harry groans in agreement, meeting Louis’ every frantic thrust. “Oh, god. Louis, I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not,” Louis warns, voice hoarse. “Not until I say.”

Fuck. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly. He wants to be good for Louis, he wants to keep going, but this is what he's been fantasizing about for years since that one night. There's no way he's going to last much longer. 

“I can’t. Gonna—” he whines, fingers digging into Louis’ sides in a death grip.

Louis’ hands slide down between them to Harry’s chest, every touch sending sparks through Harry like a live wire, setting every one of his nerve endings on fire. Harry holds onto Louis hips and pushes him down, desperately moving with every firm slide of Louis’ clothed length against his, breathing laboured and frantic.

But Harry isn’t the one to fall over the edge first. Louis’ hips slow, starting to falter, and without warning, he shouts out, whimpering and needy and Harry clutches him tighter. Louis lifts his head up, tilting it back only for a second, revealing the arch of his neck and Harry bites down the urge to reach up and lick him, before he buries his slightly sweaty face into Harry’s flushed neck.

Harry comes only moments later, his bottoms soaked through, gasping for breath as he clutches Louis’ face closer, small whimpers escaping his mouth from the aftershocks.

And then Harry’s suddenly very aware that Louis’ hands are just as tightly gripping onto his hips and don’t seem to letting off anytime soon, the only sounds in the room their laboured breaths, chests rising and falling with Louis’ body still heavily pliant on top of Harry.

“Um, Lou," Harry starts. "We should, um... we should clean up, yeah?” he says quietly, hesitantly, as to not scare away this wonderful, panting creature above him, currently burrowing further into the nape of his neck. Harry subtly tightens his hold around Louis’ back further, and carefully buries his nose in Louis’ mussed hair, struck with the inexplicable need to have Louis close for as long as he'll let him. He refuses to think about the implications.

After. He’ll work it out after.

Louis doesn’t move for a good fifteen seconds, and in that time Harry’s mind goes into overdrive, terrified that Louis thinks they’ve finally crossed a line that they can’t come back from, maybe blames Harry for being the one to initiate the kiss, or worse—he’ll revert back to his old routine of one step closer and two steps back, and push Harry away, hating him again.

Harry can’t imagine them going back to the way they were before.

Harry doesn’t hate him. Not anymore. If he ever did.

They’ve become real friends over these few weeks, haven’t they? Things have been good. They basically called an unspoken truce when Harry agreed to the show. Louis brings Harry coffee in the mornings. They watched The fucking Notebook together. Harry's been cooking him dinner lately and they cuddle for Christ's sake!

Shit. What if Louis really has just been pretending this whole time? Maybe it's just Harry who's being the stupidly sappy one.

Either way, it's a scary thought, Louis not being Harry's friend. “Louis?” he whispers.

Harry waits for Louis to respond with a slackened mouth and a slowly withering heart for what feels like a bloody eternity. 

Finally, Louis shifts.

He rolls over and lays flat on his back, his body pressed to Harry’s side. Harry closes his eyes and listens to Louis’ even breaths, not daring to move, only wondering how the hell it got to this point of caring what Louis thinks of him with everything he has.

Harry risks opening his eyes and turns over to find Louis already watching him. “Hey,” Harry says dumbly.

Louis smiles, wide and crinkly and Harry starts to laugh, relief and something else bubbling inside his chest. “Hey.”

At least he’s talking to him.

“That was um—”

And then Louis’ presses a chaste kiss to Harry’s bitten mouth which is more teeth than anything else, barely catching the corner of it, and Harry lies there frozen. Harry’s eyes widen in surprise. “What was that?”

“Told you.” Louis leans in again and presses another longer kiss, and Harry opens his mouth, kissing back with fervent enthusiasm. “Practicing,” he breathes with a smirk, as he pulls back.

Harry frowns.

“Louis, we should—” he pauses as yet another kiss swallows his words, “um, talk about what’s happening here.”

“I’m kissing you,” Louis replies like it’s obvious, a smile in his voice, turning onto his side to face him. He doesn’t look like he’s going to run but still, Harry can’t help but replay the last time this happened (or almost happened). As soon as they were interrupted by that knock on the bathroom door, Louis was out of there like a shot, leaving Harry trailing behind him like a lost pup. It would be even more pitiful now that they’re no longer teenagers.

“Yes, I’m aware.” Harry pauses, starkly conscious of the wetness in his boxers that’s seeped through his bottoms, and clasps his hands together for something to focus on other than Louis’ eager kisses. “I thought you’d be right out that door by now.”

The smile on Louis’ face falters, his eyes extremely blue and fixed on Harry’s, and then he’s looking away, ducking his chin.

“Louis?” he presses, a cold feeling sweeping the innards of his chest.

“Do you want to stop this?” Louis suddenly asks, face serious, almost... guilty.

“Stop what?”

Louis' silent for a few agonizing beats. 

“This whole fake dating thing," Louis says quietly. "If you’re not comfortable going on the show with me, it’s fine. I’ll understand.”

Harry doesn’t understand where this is coming from. They’ve been accepted onto the show now. They're filming in a week. Why would they stop now?

“Lou, if what we just did made you uncomfortable—”

“It didn’t,” Louis says automatically.

Harry stares for a moment, lips involuntarily upturning. “Okay, good. So, what’s the problem?”

Louis shrugs, cheeks flushing. Wow. He just made Louis Tomlinson blush. This is the start of a new era. A momentous occasion Harry must take note of in his journal.

He’s met with Louis’ unwavering stare. “Nothing,” he whispers, and Harry watches as Louis slowly rolls off the bed with his jeans pooling around his ankles, kicks them off and heads into Harry’s bathroom. The lock clicks, and Harry lays there in his unpleasantly damp underwear and jogging bottoms, staring unseeingly at his ceiling with no idea what he’s got himself into.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I Always Knew' - The Vaccines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When it gets to the game show, know that I have no idea how TV works specifically so I'm just making everything up!

 

Glancing at the clock for what is probably about the twenty eighth time now, Harry is alarmed to see that it’s well past ten, and Louis’  _still_  in the bathroom. It’s been so long in fact, that Harry has been tormenting himself into an anxious, frazzled mess as Alex Turner’s leather jacket soaked voice fills his head with not so pleasant ideas about whatever the hell this thing is with Louis, thumping through his earbuds, and leaving his sated, orgasmic haze unfortunately a distant memory.

Harry's almost pulling his hair out, grimacing as he tugs on clumps of his curls a bit too hard, The Arctic Monkeys’ not so idealistic lyrics about love and sex and desire playing havoc with his own misgivings and whimsical, probably unrealistic notions about the subjects.

And what? Did he just say love? That’s not... Whoa, whoa. Okay. Hang on. He's not feeling romantic things towards Louis now, is he? Yeah, he fancies Louis to no end, and he actually likes him as a person now but.

He's not. His feelings... they're just...

God. Shit.

Maybe they are.

Harry's cheeks are literally aflame. Is he honestly this hot and bothered from a bit of teenage grinding in their boxer shorts? And why is it suddenly so baking hot in here, fuck. His skin is sticky and blotchy and then there's the mess in his pants he's still not cleaned up, only he can't seem to peel himself off this bed of existential crises over Louis bloody Tomlinson.

Harry’s just trying to string together what the fuck just happened, okay? They dry humped. This is like, a milestone or something, even if it does sound as juvenile as Harry feels about now. Basically they've finished where they left off four years ago in Louis’ bathroom. That's not romantic, okay. It's not. But fuck. It felt  _good_. Really good. And not just because it was sexual. Harry was practically drowning in all of Louis' senses, could taste him—the lingering tobacco mixed with something sweet on his tongue, feel the hot press of his purposeful hands on him—on his chest, over his back, against his neck... Harry flinches at the sore bruises littering the skin just under his earlobe. 

Okay. Harry does _like_  like Louis. Oh, god. He really does. That much has been established. If there was any room left for doubt, any smidgen of that has most definitely been snuffed out. As in Harry is certain he wants to sleep with Louis in both the _I-want-to-have-as-much-sex-as-humanly-possible-with-you_ and also the _I want-to-cuddle-you-while-I-fall-asleep-to-the-sound-of-your-breathing_ sense. He’s not denying that, but maybe Harry's getting a few too many miles ahead of himself.

Slow down, Styles.

Except it's real now isn't it? It wasn't a kiss in front of the guys, or a staged kiss for the cameras, for the producers.

This happened in Harry's dorm, in Harry's bed, while they were _alone_.

What does this mean?? Does Louis like him too?

They’re close to being friends now, aren't they? They enjoy being around each other, and actually, willingly spend time together and not just for fake boyfriend purposes. It’s nice. For want of a better word. It is nice. When it's just them. So what exactly are they now? Friends with benefits? Maybe Harry should clarify Louis’ feelings on the subject. He might not even consider them properly friends yet—just acquaintances until the show airs or whatever. Who knows what goes on in that unpredictable, hurricane of a boy’s head.

One he'd definitely like back on top of him, please and thanks.

Fuck.

He really wants Louis. Perhaps even in all the ways he _can_  have him.

Oh, god. He's just so confused. He needs Niall. Or Liam. Someone to knock some sense into him and make him figure out what he wants from Louis. Does he want an actual relationship with him? That's the type of thing Harry goes for, after all. Harry Styles, self-proclaimed, obsessive, starry-eyed romantic. It's what he's always wanted. But would Louis?

Again, he’s getting too far ahead of himself. God, since when did he become such a bumbling, erratic mess over Louis fucking Tomlinson?

Harry feels like his head’s been dragged through rubble and hard stone and a mountain of wreckage, (or something to that affect—he's dramatic as hell, he knows. Let him have this) and he has no idea what to do next. This was supposed to be pretend for god's sake. Louis basically hired Harry to _pose_ as his boyfriend. In public. Not actually get off with him in private. Jesus. But, it’s not like he didn’t want this to happen—at one point it used to be all Harry thought about— but now that it has...

Fuck, what now?

Harry rubs his hands vigorously over his eyelids, dragging them slowly down his lips, bitten so red and raw that he’s now got a metallic tang in his mouth that tastes suspiciously like blood.

Brilliant.  

What is he doing in there? Harry hopes he’s actually doing his personal business or whatever, and hasn’t actually climbed out the bathroom window or something. Wouldn’t that be mortifying?

Oh,  _shit._

What if Louis actually _has_ climbed out of the fucking  _window_?

He’s such an idiot. Of course! Of course Louis’ still the annoying prick he was in high school. It's not like Louis could possibly, suddenly become Harry's ideal partner in a few short weeks after everything that’s gone on between them. Up until three weeks ago, Louis was still the bane of Harry’s existence. Why did he expect anything different? Now he’s going to tell everyone what a gullible idiot Harry has been and things will rewind back to the antagonism they let themselves fall into before, and he’ll just have to accept Louis is never going to genuinely like him. Like Harry has miraculously begun to.

Whose idea was this for Harry to get involved with Louis again, anyway? Oh wait. It was _Harry’s_. He’s such an idiot. He hates this. Maybe he should call Niall and confirm Harry’s a giant idiot who went and let himself become infatuated with the human form of Lucifer. He buries his face in his pillow and groans loudly, drawn out and exaggerated. 

It’s while Harry’s sending himself into a panicked abyss of rejection and humiliation all over again that Louis appears at the foot of his bed, a cloud of steam and heat emerging from the bathroom doorway. His hair is a damp, ruffled cluster of bronze as he towels it vigorously, another towel wrapped loosely around his waist, his little tummy on display and low enough that he’s revealing the faint, downy hair of his happy trail.

Harry’s hit with the urge to blow a raspberry on it. A loud, drawn out one. Several in fact as ‘Your Body Is A Wonderland’ immediately begins playing inside Harry’s ears at maximum volume, despite his earbuds now currently dangling around his neck, thoughts of candy lips and bubblegum tongues filling up the dazed spaces of his brain.

What was he even freaking out about? Pesky amnesia strikes again.

Louis’ watching him with amused, clear blue eyes. “Trying to keep that wolf side under wraps I see,” he says, mouth quirked.

“What?” Harry blinks, dazed.

“You and your growling tendencies. Just admit you’re a werewolf, Harry.” Louis laughs when Harry continues to stare, unable to take in one ridiculous word he’s saying. “I used your shower,” Louis says, voice raspy and almost... _fond_? It definitely sounds like something akin to fondness. Or Harry is imagining things. He’s gone mad. Louis makes him mad. “If that wasn’t already evident. But I know it’s difficult for you to grasp the obvious, so I won’t hold it against you,” he says wryly. “I hope you don’t mind.” Harry finds it in him to mildly roll his eyes, but he’s too distracted by the way Louis’ staring at Harry, mirth in his eyes, that familiar smirk that does things to Harry’s insides, curving his glistening, rose tinted lips.

It takes several more seconds for Harry to find his voice. “Would it matter if I did?” Harry replies, his voice hoarse and already growing hard again in his unpleasantly soiled pants.

“No,” Louis shrugs, tone lilting. “Does it ever?” 

"I thought... I thought you'd left," Harry gets out. Louis’ smile falls, and frowns, opening his mouth to speak. "But you were in the shower," Harry interrupts, feigns a smile, still feeling unsure, maybe a bit fearful that Louis still might bail on him. "Makes sense that I couldn't hear. I had my earbuds in," he explains uselessly, lifting the buds up, circling one between his fingers. He doesn't tell Louis he had quite the meltdown while he was in there.

Louis nods, like it's obvious, somewhat unaffected, but eyes still dotted with remnants of confusion. "Where did you think I went?" he says, tilting his head coquettishly. Louis’ hands go to his curved, plush waist then, eyes on Harry, impish lips quirked as he drops the goddamn towel revealing _everything_.

Harry is about to fucking combust and burst into flames. Because Jesus Christ. He’s  _naked._  Not that Harry hasn’t seen his naked body before—seeing as they used to use the same showers after football practice—but he could hardly keep his gaze straight (hah!) when all that caramel, golden skin was on display, taunting him and resulting in raging boners.

Not that he’s any better with it now.

Louis merely stands there, completely unbothered and nonchalant, (he's an exhibitionist, Harry swears, and Harry thought _he_ was bad) tiny water droplets dripping down the gorgeous, smooth planes of Louis’ curves and edges, everything there on show, nothing left to the imagination, and he’s doing it all with a wicked grin on his devilishly handsome face.

He hates him.

“Louis,” Harry groans loudly, rolling over and burying his face in his pillow, the sound muffled as he whines desperately, starting to lazily rut against the mattress.

He feels a dip in the bed next to him then, and Harry glances up, peaking one eye open, mouth poised in a pout. “Are you trying to kill me? Is this what you’ve been planning all along? I knew you were the spawn of Satan. It’s your real middle name, isn’t it? Or Lucifer. I reckon it must be. Too many similarities,” he grumbles.

Louis laughs, delighted, like he’s won his favourite game, his shoulders hunched and shaking. If Harry had said this a month ago he would have shot back with a biting comment that went beyond teasing. Now he’s holding out his hands to Harry, face open and cheeks flushed as he stands back up. “Come on.”

“Where’re we going?” Harry asks, brows knitting together, letting Louis tug him upright.

Louis gestures to Harry’s crotch with a look that says  _isn’t it obvious?_

“You’re a right state, and you’ve been lying in those dirty joggers for far too long.” He wrinkles his nose, face scrunching up. He’s so adorable right now, it’s too much. Harry wants to literally knock his head against the wall, especially when Louis is leaning in closer, mouth hovering over his earlobe, hot breath tickling his heated skin. “Should have taken you in there with me in the first place. So, get up," he says, closer still, "and maybe I’ll sponge you down,” he murmurs in his ear. When he pulls away his eyes are locked on Harry’s lips and filled with what Harry hopes is another surge of burning want. “Hmm? How does that sound?” he rasps, trailing a finger slowly down Harry’s milky bare chest, stopping short of his waistband. Harry’s muscles spasm at his touch.

Louis’ face splits into a bitten grin.

Harry shakes his head up and down embarrassingly hard in answer, and he’s up like a shot, easily allowing Louis to drag him into the bathroom by the hand, both falling into contagious giggles as Louis strips off his lower half comically fast, and he practically hauls him into the shower by the armpits, Harry’s laughter abruptly dying in his throat when Louis decides to go down on him, hot, wet mouth closing around the head, licking and sucking heartily, taking him further inch by inch without so much as a hint of a splutter. Harry’s fingers bury themselves in Louis’ hair as Louis’ hands clutch tightly at his hips, blue eyes staring at him closely and Harry tips his head back against the tiles, and stops thinking altogether.

**

It’s Saturday morning, and Louis is taking Harry to his mum’s house to introduce Harry as his ‘boyfriend’ and explain the deal about the new ‘How Well Do You Know Your Spouse?’ game show airing and the tiny detail of them appearing on it as a couple.

The thing is, Harry’s not so sure about this anymore: this plan to pass Harry off as his significant other to his whole family before they appear on national television, continuing to pass themselves off as a bonafide, committed, loved-up couple.

Not since he’s realised he probably wants Louis a lot more than he initially thought, and not just in the sexual benefits kind of way, (Louis also sucked him off this morning, waking him up with his searing lips around the head of his dick. Harry very nearly had a heart attack right there and then) but in the romantic, proper, unconditional sense that Harry’s sentimental heart has always longed for, has spent hours sifting through the Romantic Era of poetry for, daydreaming until his poor innocent soul was brimming full of elegant and exquisite words and meaningful prose of an emotion he’d not yet fully experienced.

Look, let’s slow down for a sec. Harry’s not saying he loves Louis or anything, but perhaps, he might possibly want to... _date_  Louis. Take him out, you know. Like, for real. Maybe? 

Okay, maybe, yeah.

There, he said it. Or thought it. Or yeah, whatever. Fuck.

But things have been going so well, so easily, and so... well, undefined and vague in terms of what exactly they’re doing. Harry’s very aware of the fact they’ve been holed up in Louis’ bedroom, exchanging frequent blowjobs over the past couple of days, seemingly teetering dangerously on the ‘friends with benefits’ line with mutual enthusiasm, engaging in intimate activities that involve quizzing each other on silly things like their top five ice cream flavours, all while Harry giggles and squirms against the sheets as Louis peppers his tummy with a trail of deep red love bites, or as Louis moans loudly as Harry relentlessly sucks him off whenever they take a break, mostly substituting food for orgasms. They’ve drowned in each other’s cells and heat and senses as they’ve dry humped their way to release on Louis' bed as he pants out the answers to Harry’s favourite songs of each decade, and have smothered each other with deep kissing sessions, asking _this or that_ questions and laughing manically when they’ve shouted out a different answer at the same time.

Granted most of the subjects might be irrelevant, but they’re learning more and more about each other, and Harry is falling scarily deeper and deeper into a place he worries he won’t be able to get out of once the game is over.

Harry can’t say he doesn’t want to talk about this before someone gets hurt.

Before Harry gets hurt.

But if he can keep _this_ a while longer, Harry’s going to keep his mouth shut and absorb every expression Louis makes, swallow every whimper that escapes his lips, kiss every inch of Louis’ sun-kissed body and memorise every infectious smile he bestows upon Harry before the time’s up and Louis ultimately breaks off whatever the hell this is that they’re partaking in.

It’s all kinds of messy and confusing, but of course Harry forgets about everything, every doubt and worry as soon as Louis’ mouth is licking at the nape of his neck, teeth dragging over the juncture of his shoulder, working on yet another love bite, reflexively winding his hands around Louis’ narrow waist.

Harry’s currently staring at a particularly dark bruise just under his earlobe, beaming brightly and nibbling absently on his bottom lip in the mirror of Louis’ bathroom, replaying the events of this morning on a loop—waking up in Louis’ bed, Louis’ dainty eyelashes blinking up at him, a bashful smile teasing that obscene mouth.

That all unfortunately comes crashing to an abrupt halt when Louis is screaming bloody murder because he’s stubbed his toe in the living room on one of Harry’s thick spined hardbacks he's brought over, (because he's kind of neglected his reading lately for obvious reasons) piled by the kitchen table that Harry may or may not have chucked onto the floor in order to grind against Louis on top of it. Uh. Yeah. Thank god his roommates are party animals.

“Harry, for fuck’s sake! Take your dusty, moldy smelling books and get them out of my sight,” Louis yells, stomping back to his bedroom to look for him probably. “Harry, where are you?” he huffs.

Harry stays silent in the bathroom, safe from Louis’ wrath and giggles into his palm.

Persistent banging ensues on the door.

“Is that seriously all your tiny fists can muster?” Harry calls.

Stony silence.

“Harry,” Louis says lowly, and Harry claps a hand over his mouth to stop from laughing again, “come out of there now, so I can teach you a lesson about leaving hard things on the floor. The  _floor_ , where I am supposed to be able to walk!”

Harry calmly opens the door, a shit eating grin stuck to his face as he emerges completely naked and revels in the way Louis’ mouth falls open, the way his eyes go comically wide, sweeping over Harry’s body with a hungry gaze.

“Right, that’s it,” Louis warns, launching himself at him and jumping up to swing his arms around his neck, Harry stumbling to catch him in time as Louis wraps his legs around his waist and immediately attacks Harry’s mouth as they fall into a heap on the bathroom floor, their laughter thunderous and bright and unabashed, as the sound of the kettle still boiling noisily in the background in the kitchen, two empty mugs left out on the side.

**

“The red gummy bears are the best ones,” Louis mumbles, suckling on a packet of Haribo as he lounges on his bed, making obnoxious chewing sounds, tangled up in the sheets, naked, of course. At least his modesty is covered up or Harry would be tempted to climb back into bed with him again. To be honest, he’s tempted anyway.

But he’s just showered, so...best not. No matter how edible Louis looks right now, happily sprawled out like this, carefree, and guard completely down. For Louis’ standards anyway. Not even when Louis shifts and crawls up the bed, cushioning himself on his stomach, bare arse there for Harry’s dazed eyes to drink in, the skin paler than the rest of him—seeing as that part of the body gets the least amount of sun, but _fuck_ , it’s still so gorgeous and... Nope. No. Get it together, for God’s sake, Styles. He’s being a pathetic, horny idiot right now. He can’t very well go to Louis’ mum’s smelling like sex now, can he? (And no, they’ve not done _that_  yet. It’s just sexual favours at this point, everything else fair game except that specific  _thing_.)

And thank God, because Harry has no idea what that would mean if they crossed  _that_  line. Harry’s got a headache and heart palpitations just thinking about it. (Maybe he should see a doctor?)

It's a lot.

“You reckon?” Harry says, distractedly as he puts on the clothes he brought round yesterday to change into this morning. They’ve got about an hour until they have to leave for Jay’s and Harry is bricking it, stomach too unsettled to try eating breakfast just yet. He’ll have to get Louis to stop at a Little Chef on the motorway or something. If they even still do those. It’s probably TGI Fridays or Nandos these days.

Harry slips on a navy cotton jumper and zips up his black skinny jeans, hears the sheets rustle as Louis rolls onto his back again. “You know that’s hardly a nutritional breakfast, Louis. And sit up. You’ll choke.”

“Alright, Mum. And shut your face, they’re yours!”

“Have you been going through my stuff?” Harry frowns.

“Oh, calm down,” Louis sighs. “I stopped as soon as I saw these anyway. Thought you might have something to nibble on in that great big sack of yours.”

“It’s a duffel bag,” Harry mutters.

Louis waves a disinterested hand. “Well, anyway, I was pleasantly surprised to see you actually eat sugar. I’ve seen those salads you constantly eat for lunch. You’re like a bloody rabbit.”

Harry sighs, shaking his head. “I like a balanced diet, that’s all. Now get dressed. You’ve not even started packing yet. It’s not like you need to take much so get on with it.”

Louis puts the Haribo packet back in Harry’s duffel and sits up, pouting. “Do it for me?” he sings, blinks coquettishly. Jesus.

Harry scoffs, half-laughing. “Are you joking?”

“No, I’m rubbish at packing. You’re more practical, aren’t ya?”

“I once wore a shirt with my nips on display to a wedding, but alright, if you say so,” Harry shrugs. “But no. Do it yourself.”

“Harry,” he whines, pouting more exaggeratedly, poking his foot at his stomach, sliding it down to his zipper with a proud smirk.

“Low blow,” Harry moans as Louis’ toes press down. Unfortunately for Harry, Louis also looks bloody adorable. So of course, he gets roped into packing Louis’ things too. “You’re insufferable. Have I ever mentioned that?” he grumbles as he heaves a large bag onto the bed.

“Every day, babe,” Louis lilts sweetly.

Harry rolls his eyes, ignoring the pleased feeling settling in his chest at the name _babe_ as he starts sifting through Louis’ wardrobe and drawers, Louis lying back down on the bed, midriff covered back up, arms behind his head as he watches Harry, a blissful smirk on his beautiful face.

Shit, did he just call Louis beautiful? He did. Well, objectively speaking, it’s true anyway, so whatever. It’s not a big deal. Louis is unfairly  _pretty_ , especially in this morning light, the sun filtering through the net curtains as they bathe Louis is an even more golden hue, his skin practically dazzling in it. Harry turns his attention back to the tedious task at hand, folding Louis' clothes while facing the mirror and trying desperately to bite down his giggles as Louis' toes poke and prod at his bum.

**

They’re all packed and ready to leave for Louis’ mum’s house when one of Louis’ housemates’, Katie (the resident wild child with blue hair and an infectious laugh) shows up with a long-limbed model-type guy, cheekbones sharp and a mop of dark hair framing his disgustingly attractive face.

They seem nice enough; Model Guy lifts himself up atop the kitchen counter while Katie fills up a baguette roll with meat and salad and rambles on about another ‘wicked night’ they had last night and Model Guy’s attention is seemingly set upon her.

Only then he decides to shift his interest to Louis, who’s scurrying around for his misplaced Vans.

“Lou, they’re down here,” drawls Model Guy, sleek and sultry; he’s probably still high. He points to the pair of black Vans at the foot of the kitchen table.

 _Lou_. Harry frowns, pulling a dubious face.

“Ah, cheers, love,” Louis beams, giving Model Guy a longer than necessary interval of eye contact. Something sludgy sits in Harry’s stomach. God, Harry really needs to get this jealousy thing under control. It’s awful. Ugh. He’s becoming one of those possessive freaks and it’s even more ridiculous seeing as he’s not even Louis’ real boyfriend. Someone slap him.

Harry's phone rings then. Niall’s name flashes up on his screen. Okay, let's get some second opinions, shall we?

"Hey," Harry starts, smiling.

"Where the fuck have you been lately?" Niall's voice is tinny on the other end, but no less raucous and jarring. For a second Harry thinks he’s actually mad, and guilt washes over him. "Holed up in a sex den with your boyfriend?" he quips, a manic grin in his voice. So, he’s just nosy then.

"Niall," Harry grits. "We haven't had sex,"—he can hear Niall's frustrated huffs of breath—"but um, we have done... other _things_..." Harry braces himself for the inevitable shitstorm Niall's about to erupt into.

"Shut the fuck up! Are you serious? Oh my God, Harry," he practically shouts down the line. Harry pulls his ear away.

"Yes, I'm serious,” he hisses, heartbeat speeding up at the thought of Louis overhearing.

"Harry... does this mean you and Louis—"

"I don't know," Harry exhales, letting his eyes close. "I mean, I think I like him. Like, in that way. But."

"But what?"

"Well, I don't know if that means I want to be with him properly, you know, like..." Harry sighs miserably, "or that Louis would even want that too." 

"Don't be dense, Haz. I'm telling you that's exactly what he wants. Where are you now?"

"Um, his place? We're kind of going to his family's house in a bit."

"Come again? Why would you do that?” A pause. “Was this Louis' idea?"

"Well, it wasn't bloody mine, was it?"

"That's a bit..."

"A bit what?" Harry demands.

"Well, surely he's not taking you there just because you're gonna be on TV? I dunno, don't you think it sounds like Louis wants you to meet his family just because? Maybe he’s _that_ into you. Properly, I mean, and he just wants—"

"No, stop talking," Harry interrupts. Because what? "That's getting way too ahead of where things are currently at between us, Niall. If we’re anything, we're a casual thing. Louis taking me to his family's place for the weekend does not mean he secretly or subconsciously wants to be in a relationship with me, okay? That's just... too far-fetched," he laughs. This is line of talk is anything but funny though.

"Alright," Niall says, giving up. "I'll let you guys sort this out naturally, but it's gonna happen, Harry. I'd bet money on it." His tone is cocky. Ugh. Harry hates when Niall is right. Not that he's saying he is right, but... it's something to ponder isn't it? Or in Harry's case, freak out over.

Freak the fuck out over.

They wrap up the call with Harry's stomach feeling particularly unsettled, especially when Louis mouths over to him that's it's time to go, a gorgeous smile caressing Harry's innards and pulling him into another bout of persistent butterflies. Though they’re not really the good kind at the moment.

**

The drive to Louis’ mum’s house is a couple of hours, not including traffic, and Harry has been continuously dozing off while Louis drives, tapping his fingers atop the wheel in a rhythm that really doesn’t have one, aiming to get to his mum’s by one-ish. They’d spent the first hour bickering over the radio station until Louis decided he would put on one of his own mixed CD’s and Harry was pleasantly surprised by how good Louis’ taste in music actually is.

So the mood was saved—until the second hour, in which Louis would not stop banging on about the long list of do’s and don’ts in regards to how they’d conduct themselves in front of Jay and his sisters.

“I thought you wanted them to believe we’re real?” Harry snapped, staring at him with a baffled, irked expression, lifting his head up from its spot lent up against the passenger window.

“Yes,” Louis drawled, agitated, “but if we go too overboard they’re going to know something’s not quite right, aren’t they?” Louis snapped back, eyebrows furrowed, huffing and puffing like a brat. Though to be fair, Harry was probably being the Brat™ seeing as he sulked for the rest of the journey.

And so Harry wakes up, restless and twitchy by the time Louis pulls in, a headache pounding on either side of his temples before he’s eyes fall to the house in front of them. They’re parked on a pretty, gravel front drive, multiple flowerpots bordering the house and the pathway to the door. It’s a gorgeous house, huge and picturesque with a lovely kept front garden, and it’s just how Harry remembers it, what with it not being too far from where Harry lives in Cheshire himself. Harry only prays Jay isn’t still in regular contact with his mum, and hasn't already phoned to tell her Harry and Louis have arrived. (Harry wouldn't bet on it.)

He can try to lie to one family. But not his. There’s no way that’s happening.

“We’re here,” Louis says, nudging Harry’s arm gently.

Harry blinks awake, a tad bleary-eyed and immediately glares at Louis.

“What?” Louis says, indignant. “You agreed to this, Harry,” he scolds, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “so you better not show me up in front of my family, or I’ll make your life a living hell. Capisce?”

“You do that already,” Harry mumbles, rubbing his eyes with closed fists and then searching his pockets for some gum. He takes a couple of swigs of water before popping the spearmint gum in his mouth and tucks his cigarette packet into the inside of his jacket with his phone. Louis’ eyes widen when he sees them. “And you’re not Italian. Speak normally.”

“Harry, what are you doing?”

For a second Harry thinks he’s having another go about correcting him again when Louis is suddenly snatching the cigarette packet out of Harry’s jacket, winds down the window, and chucks the packet out as hard as he can, watching it land by the drain pipe on the roof.

Harry stares at him, incredulous. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“You can’t smoke this weekend. My mum thinks I quit and if she sees you smoking, she’ll assume I have been again."

"And you couldn't just keep them in the glove compartment of this car like a normal person?!" 

"She might check here," he shrugs. "And it’ll be a whole thing and  _you’ll_  get her wrath too. So unless you want to explain to my mother why you’ve brought cigarettes into the house with two toddlers running about—”

“Toddlers?” Harry repeats, face lighting up, his mood lifting significantly. “You never said there would be babies here!”

Why didn’t he say so? Harry doesn’t care about anything for the rest of the day now. There’s going to be  _babies_  here.

“Oh, well, yeah. My mum had another set of twins about a year ago.”

“How the hell did I not know about this? Why didn’t you mention anything? You’d have had no trouble getting me here if I knew that in the first place,” Harry smiles.

Not entirely true, but already Harry feels in a better mood. What can he say? Kids love him.

He watches Louis’ mouth form into an amused smile, falling into airy giggles. “Oh, right,” he laughs. “You like kids then? I didn’t know,” he shrugs, smile still in place.

“Yeah," Harry nods. "I love kids,” he beams.

Louis keeps his eyes on him, lips upturning. “Well, good. Because there are a lot of them in this house, so get ready to have your hair pulled every which way, Harry. You’re gonna have a shit load of ribbons and hair bands in that long curly mop of yours by the end of the day.”

Harry bites back another smile. This will be so much easier to get away with now. Distract himself and everyone else with how good he is with children and no one will remember asking too many questions about Louis and Harry’s ‘relationship’. He won’t have to do anything with Louis if there’s a baby stuck to his chest. Genius.

“Okay, you ready?” Louis says on an exhale. Harry nods, notices the sunlight catching Louis’ hair, as it ruffles slightly from the wind.

“Yes, let’s get this over with,” Harry rolls his eyes.

Louis gets out of the car and Harry follows, retrieving their bags when the front door opens and Louis’ mum Jay stands in the doorway, her auburn and brown hair pulled into a high ponytail, wearing a white thrilly blouse and a wide beam on her bright, warm face.

“Sweetheart!” She barrels over and pulls Louis into a suffocating hug, pressing kisses to his cheeks with exaggerated smacking sounds. Harry smirks at the scene in front of him. “You alright, love?”

“Yep,” Louis says, face smushed. “Hi, Mum,” he smiles brilliantly. “How are you?” His voice is soft.

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks, poppet.” Then her smile finds Harry and widens further. “Harry! God, I haven’t seen you since you were sixteen! Look at you! Proper grown up now. And your hair! It’s lovely, darling,” she beams, pulling Harry into an equally oxygen depriving hug. "How are you?"

Harry hugs her back with a natural warmth. He always did like Louis’ mum. Far more than her menace of a son. Snort. "I'm good thanks," Harry smiles. "You look exactly the same as I remember you," he grins, lathering on the charm. "Lovely, as always."

"Oh, stop it," Jay laughs, smacking him feather light on his shoulder. "Right, come on. Inside. I'll get Dan to bring your bags in."

"Nah, it's fine. We've got them, Mum," Louis insists, contented.

Jay's answering smile is blinding. "Alright, love." She wanders back inside, the sounds of high pitched squealing coming from the doorway, a couple of small blonde heads whooshing past.

"Ready?" Louis smirks. "I'd watch out for Daisy in particular. You could say she's the smaller, female version of me."

"I'll be sure to keep an eye out for that one then." Harry takes both of their bags out of the boot and let's Louis lock the car, padding inside with a comfortable feeling filling his chest.

**

Jay was more than happy to show Harry around the house, showering him with too kind compliments and questions about uni and life and  _Louis_ —little things like: “I bet Louis is even more of a messy pup now” and “How long has it been since you’ve been together?” and “Louis loves his roast dinners, though of course you’d know that, Harry”, and she beams when she speaks, eyes crinkling in the corners, just like Louis’ do. And she’s so happy and thrilled about the idea of them together that guilt gnaws at Harry, as he answers all of her innocent prying, seamlessly, of course, because he likes to think he knows Louis pretty much inside out by now.

Well, generally, at least. From all the bits and fragments Louis’ allowed Harry to see and know about, and then there’s using the ten years he’s known him for. It’s not been too difficult at all to seem convincing. He thinks. Hm. Maybe there’s a reason for that.

She’s stuck to his side for the better part of an hour, so he’s not had to slather on the PDA or affectionate touches with Louis so far. Not that Harry has a problem with that. (Obviously).

But Jay certainly hasn’t questioned anything, merely tickles him under the chin and the near the shoulder, making an odd squealing noise whenever Harry tells a story about Louis and his ability to sleep anywhere and everywhere, and his habit of oversleeping, too, or his delicate eating practices, or his moody episodes whenever he gets cold. She just gives him these knowing, affectionate looks that has Harry’s insides feeling warm and fuzzy at her ability to welcome him into the family so quickly.

Like now.

“Aw, darling, you're so besotted, it’s adorable,” she smiles, briefly squeezing his hand. Harry feels a nervous twinge at that. God, she’s fallen for this, hook, line and sinker. “And to think, you two never even really got on very well when you were younger. Though, your mum and I could always see something there,” she says in a hushed voice, winks once.

“Really?” Harry laughs, doubtful.

“Oh, yes! Louis always used comment on your singing voice for starters. Telling me how good you were and that he was worried he’d taken your role. Remember that play you did when you were fourteen? He felt terrible when he got the lead,” she says, more seriously. Harry frowns. That’s not how Harry remembers it at all. All he can recall is a cocky little shit who bragged to his face that he’d gotten it and not Harry. “He was always quite insecure when it came to his own talents, my boy.”

“But Louis was always brilliant at everything. He’s got a great voice, it’s unique. He got all the parts," he says, confused.

“I know he does, love. Louis’ just very sensitive, that’s all. But now he’s got you to support him and make sure he knows how wonderful he is, hasn’t he?” she smiles. “And him, too. I can tell how much he adores you, Harry.”

Oh, god. This is weird.

It’s uncomfortable and as lovely as Louis’ mum is, he’s feeling suffocated right now. But then she’s walking off and leaving him to it, giving him a little wave and Harry leans back on the upstairs wall of the landing, letting his head fall against it, heart hammering inside his ribcage, guilt setting in at the shambles this is.

**

He gathers himself before he makes his way downstairs into the living room, and Harry finds that he’s watching Louis for no other purpose than to absorb how he interacts with his sisters, the way he smiles wide at them with crinkly, fond eyes, and listens to every word they have to say with rapt attention, completely engrossed in their presence as he absently strokes one of the girl’s heads in that tender, gentle way only Louis does, treating his loved ones like they’re made from delicate glass, precious and important and dear.

Harry’s heart constricts at the scene in front of him when Louis must feel his eyes on him, spinning his head around and smiling almost shyly.

“Oh, Harry, come over here and meet the girls,” Louis says, waving a hand over.

Immediately, the oldest girl, Charlotte, long purple strands in her silver blonde locks bulges her eyes and purses her lips together cheekily. "You _have_ to let me braid your hair. It would look sick," she says enthusiastically, before the two younger ones, the twins, push Charlotte out of the way, both screwing up their faces in disgruntlement.

"No, we wanted to braid Harry's hair!" Daisy whines.

"Yeah, we already asked him," Phoebe pouts.

"When?" Charlotte frowns.

"When he pretty much walked through the door," says Felicity, the second oldest girl, Louis told him. "Hi, I'm Fizzy. You must be the boyfriend," she smirks, arms folded and clad in a long, loose dark jumper, brown hair pulled into a ponytail, very much resembling a younger version of Jay.

"Hi," Harry smiles. "Yep, that would be me. I'm--"

"Harry. I know," she smirks again.

"Alright, hold up, you lot. What if Harry doesn't even want his hair in braids, eh?" Louis pipes up, hiding an amused smile of his own. “They have scissors, Harry. I’m just warning you.” Charlotte hits him.

Harry shrugs, five pairs of Tomlinson eyes staring at him expectantly. "Alright, then. Go for it."

The girls squeal and jump on the spot, clambering over themselves to get to Harry. Charlotte pulls out a chair and goes to grab some hair bands off the table. The twins barrel over with brushes and start pulling and tugging on his hair roughly. 

"Ow!" he yelps, which earns unapologetic giggles from of all them. Harry grins and lets his hair be played with, eyes meeting Louis' from across the living room where he's lounged on the cream sofa, back propped up against the pillows to face Harry, arms behind his head and a teasing smile on his lips, eyes lined with something akin to fondness and affection as one of the girls tugs on his hand.

**

Eventually Jay brings out the babies. Harry instantly makes grabby hands for them, either of them, both of them, giggling and smiling at them sunnily like an idiot. Dan takes Ernest to Louis who beams as soon as he sees him, bunching his tiny fist in Louis’ blue t-shirt, relaxing immediately in his big brother’s arms. Harry knows Louis’ always had sisters, so he must be over the moon that he has a little brother now. Harry softens as he watches Louis and Ernest for a moment, before Jay hands Doris to Harry, a bit grumpy today it seems, red curls bunched up on her little head, and Harry lifts her up on his knee, talking to her and trying to get her to crack a smile.

It takes a while, Doris finally giving him a lovely one and a wonderfully, giggly chuckle when Harry pretends to punch Louis in the head. He’s imagined it many a time. Doris’ face lights up and buries her face in Harry’s chest the more Harry does it. Louis is affronted, face a disgruntled picture, tutting. “You little traitor, Dor!” he smiles, tickling her under the arms.

She buries her face further into Harry’s front and then discovers Harry’s long locks, tugging harshly. “Ouch!” Harry laughs. It only spurs her on more.

Little menace, just like her brother.

Dinner goes smoothly too, the only awkward moment occurring when Jay invites Harry to a cousin of Louis’ wedding out of the blue.

Louis’ face drops, cheeks pinkening. “Mum,” he says, a warning in his voice. “You can’t just put Harry on the spot like that. How on earth do we know where we’ll be in a year?” he says, indignant.

“Alright, bub, I was just saying. Bet you’d both look so handsome in suits,” she coos.

“Mum,” Louis whines.

Meanwhile Charlotte and Felicity share a smirk between themselves, tucking into their roast dinners the best they can as they choke back their sniggers when Louis’s foot obviously hooks around one of their ankles instead of Harry’s like he probably meant to. Louis almost chucks up his dinner right at the table, coughing as his cheeks turn crimson. Harry pats his back while trying to stifle his own laughter as a bemused Jay raises her eyebrows.

“You okay, love?” she asks, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine,” Harry says smiling, whacking his back probably harder than necessary. Louis groans and coughs at the same time in a non-verbal warning to Harry to cease the incessant patting. Harry just flutters his eyelashes at him, grinning with relish. Louis glares at him, getting his breath back and kicks him under the table. Harry yelps, before the girls burst into giggles again, the two sets of twins obliviously making a mess of the gravy, splashing it down their fronts.

Only now Jay is getting up and mortifying them both further when she begins snapping her phone away at them, taking pictures and pictures, insisting they cosy up and pose for the camera. Harry is willing to bet their cheeks are a horrifying shade of red.

Dear, God.

When that debacle is over, Jay has some choice words concerning their sleeping arrangements. Louis’ got the sofa for tonight (albeit a massive, extremely comfortable sofa) and Harry is sleeping in the guest room. Previously Louis’ old room.

Louis pouts immediately as Jay dishes out the ‘no naughty business’ rules.

“Your siblings are in the house, Louis. I’m sure you can tear yourself away from Harry for one night,” she says, a slight teasing smile on her lips, hands on her hips as she eyes them both carefully. “That’s understood, right?” she addresses them both firmly.

“Yes,” they nod in unison, smirking.

It’s for the best anyway. Harry can’t promise he’d be quiet. And Louis? Forget it.

**

That promise goes to shit fast. Obviously.

Later on, after everyone has sleepily retired upstairs to bed, leaving their empty, sticky clad bowls of ice cream scattered atop the marbled kitchen worktop, apple scented candles newly distinguished as the smoke dissolves and festers in the warmth of the house, it’s just Harry and Louis, alone, and curled up on the living room sofa as the time approaches eleven.

Harry is absently massaging Louis’ scalp underneath his plum beanie, so off center that it’s practically fallen off. Harry slips it off completely and relishes the feel of the silky softness of Louis’ hair, whose head is currently leaning against his shoulder, quiet breaths soothing to Harry’s ears, drifting into a calmness he’s not felt in a long time, if he ever even has before.

He tilts his head and lets his nose brush the top of Louis’ hair. He smells like vanilla and freshly washed clothes, wrapped up in a black crew neck jumper, the TV on a low volume in the background.

“Louis,” Harry murmurs. Louis lifts his head up, eyes on his lips.

They lock eyes silently before Harry’s mouth starts to graze lightly along Louis’ neck. Harry tips his chin down to watch his hand move lower over Louis’ stomach until he reaches the waistband of Louis’ joggers, the pads of his fingers teasingly slipping underneath the fabric.

He smirks as Louis’ dazed eyes meet his, palming Louis over his tented out black boxer briefs, which _fuck_ , is so hot that Harry’s breath catches from his mouth being so dry, his breathing growing more laboured the more turned on he gets, helplessly grinding his hips into the sofa whenever Louis lets another breathy moan escape his wet lips, tongue licking over them and biting down hard when Harry increases the pressure of his hand over Louis’ hard length, dragging it up and down his thick bulge.

Louis moans louder, albeit slightly muffled in Harry’s mussed curls. “Harry,” he breathes.

Harry hums, mouthing at his neck as he gently squeezes the base of Louis’ clothed length, smirking as an assortment of desperate whimpers leave Louis’ throat. He takes advantage of Louis’ open mouth and coaxes him into a deep, lingering kiss, forefinger and thumb of his free hand tipping Louis’ chin up, kissing eagerly, filthily, messily.

Louis makes a whiney sound of protest in the back of his throat. “Wait, wait, wait,” he pants. “We can’t do this here. Someone could come back downstairs,” he says, breathless, eyes wide, but then settling back on Harry’s lips.

This was true. Harry would be horrified if it was one of his sisters traipsing back downstairs for something, walking in on something entirely inappropriate. “Shit. Yeah, okay. Upstairs then?”

Louis smirks.

“We’re in separate rooms, mate. And besides,” Louis says, patting Harry’s chest as he stands up, adjusting himself and pulling his jumper down, “I’m not blowing you with my family in the house, you perv. Now chop, chop. Up to bed you go, Harold.”

He grins as he quickly pads away from Harry to the kitchen, turning back to laugh more, and Harry pouts, reluctantly climbing the stairs and making his way to the guest room, feeling extremely unsatisfied as his hard dick presses against his jeans.

**

The guest room is nicely furnished, a peach glow about the room, together with peach wallpapered walls, a pine wooden floor, dark wooden beside tables and wardrobe. There’s not much left over of Louis’ things, just some old photos stuck to the mirror’s border and a rolled up Beckham poster propped up in the corner, but still.

Harry Styles finally made it inside Louis Tomlinson’s bedroom.

And Harry cannot bloody get to sleep for the life of him. He shuffles over onto his left side for what is probably the hundredth time tonight to check his phone. No messages. But then Harry would have heard the buzz if there were. The time reads 03:12am.

This is hopeless. He’s still worked up and a bit clammy and so Harry turns onto his stomach, briefly contemplates rubbing off on the mattress to get rid of this pent up sexual energy while knowing Louis is directly below him, sprawled out on the sofa downstairs.

But no. He can’t rub off here. That would be gross. And disrespectful. Especially if he made a mess of the sheets. That would be mortifying. Harry shudders.

Yeah, no.

Wanking, in any form, is not happening.

Looks like Harry’s sneaking back downstairs to Louis, then. Harry slides off the sheets and winces when the mattress makes a particularly loud squeaking noise. He’s just about to open the door when the doorknob turns and in bursts Louis, clad in a loose t-shirt and boxers, practically falling into his chest.

"Jesus!” Louis hisses, a hand over his chest like the dramatic thing he is. They do make a right pair.“What are you doing, Harry?”

“What are you doing?” Harry hisses back.

“I got lonely down there,” Louis pouts, eyes alight with mischief. Uh oh. Louis’ warm hand connects with Harry’s crotch and starts to stroke right away, light and slow. Harry’s breath hitches.

“Louis,” Harry whisper moans. “Don’t,” he says, maybe a bit too loud in the quiet of the room.

Louis whips his head up so fast, Harry wonders if he’s gotten whiplash. “I mean,” Harry quickly corrects. Jesus, how is this his life? “We can’t do... you know, sexy stuff because there are children in the house. Your family’s bedrooms are literally doors away, Louis. It’s not right.”

“Sexy stuff?” Louis laughs breathily.

“Shut up,” Harry grumbles. “You know what I mean.”

“So I’m not allowed to suck you off then?”

“I didn’t say that,” Harry smiles.

“You said ‘don’t’, Harry. How many other ways are there to interpret that instruction?” he says, eyebrows quirking upwards, disapprovingly, then forming into a smirk.

“Alright, smartarse,” Harry smirks back. “So...”

Louis palms him with more pressure. Harry bites down on his lip. “This a stressful situation we’ve got ourselves into,” Louis whispers. “Don’t you want some  _relief_  for all this stress, Harry?”

Harry ignores the persistent urge to ask Louis what’s going to happen after they’ve filmed the show. When they’ve stopped this agreement or whatever it is, and it’s over.

Because once they’ve won some money, it’s likely Louis won’t want Harry anymore, will he? He’ll have his pick of the boys, like he always has. Everyone adores him.

But weirdly, as Harry’s head lulls back with rising anxiety and increasing pleasure, swallowing down the whimpers trying to escape his mouth, as Louis manoeuvres his back to rest against the door, he can’t think of single relationship Louis’ been in. He supposes they’re both only twenty one, so maybe they just haven’t had the opportunity for one yet. Not a proper relationship, anyway. Though Harry can always remember Louis surrounded by a crowd of boys and girls. The center of attention. Everyone always wanted to be his best friend or for Louis to be their boyfriend. Everyone has always loved Louis when they’ve taken the time to get to know him. Louis, who is magnetic and charming and coquettish and beautiful.

Harry’s getting to know Louis. 

Might even know him by now.

“What’s up?” Louis frowns, eyes tentative, stops the languish movements of his hand. Harry instantly misses it.

“Nothing. Just thinking,” Harry breathes, staring back at him.

“Don’t think, Harry. Thinking is never good. Just do,” he smiles.

“You’re a bad influence on me,” Harry rumbles, tone teasing.

Louis scoffs. “Please. You’re too docile, that’s your problem. You let people walk all over you, you know that? You shouldn’t let people do that, Harry. You’re intelligent and caring and brilliant, and you’ve got your own mind. Stop caring about what others think of you and just be yourself.”

Harry stares at him, bewildered. Because is Louis actually saying these things? To _him_? Out loud? Where is this coming from?

Harry laughs quietly, eyes wide with disbelief. “Louis. How much wine did you drink after dinner?”

“I’m not drunk, Harry,” he frowns, affronted apparently. “I mean it.”

Harry stares, brows furrowed. “You confuse the life out of me,” Harry sighs, eyes falling closed, head leaning against the door. “I can’t work you out.”

“Same, here.”

Harry’s eyes open. “How?” he mumbles, irritated.

Louis appears to be struggling with something, his eyes breaking their intense contact and focusing on a section of the wooden flooring instead. “Just kiss me,” he says finally.

“Louis.”

“Shh,” Louis whispers. “Please. Just kiss me, Styles.”

It would be so easy. To just drown in Louis’ hot kisses, in his soft hands, let Louis press him into the mattress and not think.

But this is out of hand already.

“Louis? Are we... you know, mates? Are we friends now?”

Louis stiffens, hands limp at his waist.

“What?” Harry demands. “Louis, this is ridiculous. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“I wasn’t aware we had been? Not for ages anyway.” Louis frowns.

Harry turns away, lets his face slide against the smooth wood. “What are we doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“ _This_. This whole, I don’t know, ‘friends with benefits’ thing and the like? Like, what are you planning on getting out of this exactly?”

“Well, if I’m lucky, some amazing orgasms?” Louis jokes.

“I’m serious.”

“So, am I,” he laughs, tightening his hands on Harry’s waist, squeezing his sides as he slides his hands behind to rest on Harry’s bum. Squeezes again.

“Louis,” Harry groans, knocking his head against the door. “Ouch.” He rubs it, pouting.

“Alright.” Louis’ sighs, his face is serious now, bracing himself as he loosens his hold on Harry. “Look, maybe... Now this is hard for me to admit, alright, so don’t be a dick about it.” Harry frowns, confused. “I like being around you,” he says, the words hanging in the air like static electricity. Harry’s chest fizzles. “And maybe... I like how I feel when I’m around you,”  he says slowly, cautiously. Louis bites his lip, unsure, perhaps even slightly embarrassed. “I know it seems like a U-turn considering our less-than-friendly history. But I guess, what I’m trying to say is, you’re not all bad, Styles. You’re actually quite an endearing, smart, funny kind of guy.”

Harry stares, surprised and well, bemused. “Are you seriously complementing me?” Harry blinks.

“Yeah, alright, don’t get too big-headed about it,” Louis mutters, taking a step backwards, itching the back of neck.

“No, no. I’m not. I’m just... Well, thanks,” Harry says, smile small and coy on his lips, uncertain of what he’s supposed to say now.

“And my sisters bloody adore you. Don’t get me started on me mother,” Louis continues, rolling his eyes.

This is weird. But it sort of makes Harry feel hopeful? Hopeful that it’s not just Harry feeling conflicted. That there’s a possibility they could be something?

“So... can we clarify what’s happening? Just so I’m absolutely sure. Because you don’t exactly lay it all out explicitly, as much as you may think otherwise.”

“We’re friends now,” Louis shrugs, smiling awkwardly.

Oh.

Okay. He was hoping for a bit more than that.

“And sometimes we like to...” Louis presses a light kiss to the nape of Harry’s neck, “make each other...” he plants another on the edge of his jaw, Harry’s eyes flutter closed, “feel good.” Louis kisses Harry’s lips, chaste and soft. “Right?”

Right.

“Okay. Good to know,” Harry whispers, feeling both pleased and rapidly uneasy at Louis’ still vague description of their thing.

“Do I make you feel good, Harry?” Louis murmurs into his neck, as he nips at the sensitive skin lightly, instantly soothing it with a wet kiss and a slide of his tongue.

Harry hums in agreement, hands wrapping around Louis’ narrow back.

Louis breathes strenuously as he continues to fervently kiss Harry’s neck, who lulls his head to side to allow Louis better access, tangling his hands in Louis’ hair, breathing heavily and heartbeat speeding up at an alarming rate when Louis moans quietly, “Should have started doing this years ago.”

Harry whines, buries his face in Louis’ neck, squeezing his eyes shut, hips bucking up frantically as Louis’ meets every roll of his hips, grips hard at his bum—and then Louis’ abruptly pulling off and taking his heated skin with him, a smirk on his flushed face. “Goodnight then, Harold,” he smiles.

Harry gapes at him like a fish. “You’re actually going to leave _now_? After you’ve riled me up like this, you cruel, cruel person?”

Louis laughs, clapping a hand over his mouth to suppress it, then he schools his expression into a pretend serious one. “There are kids in the house, Harry. You should be ashamed of yourself. Dirty boy.”

And then Louis’ slinking out the door, winking before he shuts it silently, leaving Harry to collapse back into bed, hard as fuck and even more conflicted than he was before. “Fuck,” he whispers.

He’s screwed quite frankly.

**

Sunday morning goes smoothly as can be. Smoothly as in bedlam. Harry beams, giggling into his cereal as milk drips down his chin and breakfast ends up in chaos. High pitched screaming ensues over broken, worryingly smoking hair straighteners, juvenile bickering between Louis and Charlotte and a lot of split milk and spluttering pieces of toast betwixt the older twins (as well as the odd bit of baby sick) and it makes Harry feel right at home.

That is until Louis brings up the show recording and their plan. Back to reality. Sort of.

“Um,” Louis coughs, his bare ankle hooked snugly around Harry’s socked foot under the table. Harry leans further into the touch. “Mum. Me and Harry have something to tell you.”

“Oh, my God,” she says, slamming down the milk. “You’re getting married,” Jay gasps, eyes widened. Felicity pulls an unimpressed face.

“Married?” Phoebe comments, nose scrunched up.

“Can I wear my purple dress?” Daisy shouts, as Felicity raises an eyebrow.

“Mum, what the hell? No! _Jesus._ We’re only a couple of twenty-one year olds and we’ve only been officially together a few months, we told you this,” Louis says, indignant and thrown. “Christ, no. As if,” he shrieks, a bit too aggressively against the idea if Harry’s honest.

Harry kicks him under the table. Louis scowls.

“Oh, alright,” she sighs. “So what’s this about then?” she asks, as she feeds the baby twins, swaying their little chubby legs in their highchairs. Harry makes a silly face at Doris, who coyly retreats and ducks her chin, smiling.

“Uh, so me and Harry. We’ve applied for a game show. On TV.”

Silence and confused, furrowed brows meet the two of them intently from around the table.

“Yeah. It’s called ‘How Well Do You Know Your Spouse?’ Long story short, there’s thirty grand up for grabs if we answer questions about each other correctly. We’ve already been accepted for a recording in like, five, six days time?” he smiles, sheepishly turning to Harry when no one speaks.

“Why?” Jay asks abruptly, cautiously.

“Because I need the money,” Louis says quietly, slowly, as though he doesn’t quite want his mother to hear him.

Jay studies her son for a moment, before getting up and bringing her arms around his neck from behind. “Louis, darling. Why didn’t you come to me? Are you behind on your rent? Necessities? Food bills? Louis?”

“I didn’t want to bother you and I want to pay my own way, is that okay with you?” Louis snips, but not moving from his mother’s embrace.

Jay purses her lips. “You’re so stubborn.” A pause. “But you’re a good boy,” she smiles down at him, if a little reluctantly. “If you’re sure? You know you can always come to me?”

“I want to do it myself, Mum. But thank you. I know that and I am sure. We’ll have a laugh, won’t we, love?” Louis nudges Harry’s arm and he jumps, startled out of his reverie.

_Love._

“Yeah,” Harry pipes up, willing his cheeks to stop burning. “And I’m pretty sure we’re going to ace it so my student loans will be on their way to being paid off before I’ve even got my degree.” Harry smiles, hoping it’s enough for everyone to accept their decision.

“I can’t believe you’re going to be on TV,” Felicity quips.

“Please don’t be too embarrassingly lovey-dovey, will you?” Charlotte begs.

“Lou’s going to be on the telly?” Daisy shouts, Phoebe shouting over her as they traipse in and out of the kitchen, having been distracted by their Pokemons to stay at the table.

"Well, this is exciting! I can't wait to tell everyone," Jay claps, suddenly changing her tune. God, Harry hopes she doesn't tell  _everyone_  she knows. This will be embarrassing enough as it is. "I'll have to give Anne a ring." And. Wait.  _His_  mum? Oh, fuck. No.

"No!" Harry says loudly. "I mean... she doesn't know about me and Louis yet, so could you not mention us until I've spoken to her, please? I just haven't got around to it just yet," he smiles, trying to sound as natural as possible.

"Oh," Jay says, smile faltering. "Well, of course, dear. Don't leave it too long though! I want to have a good old chit chat about you two with her."

"Oh, Mum. Please, don't," Louis groans.

"What? We always thought you two would end up together. We had a mother's intuition about it."

"Is that even a thing?" Louis says flatly.

"Yes," she insists, before getting up and clearing up the mess of the kitchen, sending the two of them one more lingering smile. Harry and Louis offer to help her and bump hips as they wash up manually, sneaking giddy looks at the other whenever it goes quiet a tad too long.

**

The drive home is comfortable, albeit on the quiet side. The atmosphere doesn’t feel weird or anything, but there’s something there. Intangible. Vaguely heavy. Harry doesn’t mind much, is too exhausted from a day spent lazing about with Louis’ energetic and wonderfully vibrant family, a warmth filling the spaces of his chest as he tips his head back and dozes to Louis’ playlist. He’d put up a fight to drive home, but Louis insisted, said it gave his brain something to do—whatever that means. Harry would be lying if that seemingly insignificant comment didn’t matter to him, didn’t stir something anxious and sludgy within him, but he’ll ask when they get home. 

Harry sneaks a uneasy sideways glance Louis’ way. His gaze is resolute, completely focused on the road, if a bit impassive, slight dark circles powdering the skin underneath his somewhat weary eyes.

Um, it’s mildly worrying, actually. He hopes Louis is just simply tired, or else Harry’s in trouble. Trouble that concerns that pumping, blood drenched organ in his chest.

“Lou?” Harry says softly. Louis hums in acknowledgement, slightly turning his face towards him but eyes still on the road.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive? I can take over if you’re tired?” Harry offers, knows his voice sounds uncharacteristically soppy, affectionate.

Damn it.

“Nah, it’s fine, Harry. Go to sleep if you want.” Louis’ voice is just as soft, husky, brushing Harry’s senses like brittle cotton, comforting but there’s a underlying tinge of uncertainty. Doubt.

“Um, okay,” he murmurs. Harry closes his eyes and tries to sleep, ignoring the pang that  Louis’ gaze facing determinedly forwards stirs, even when they’ve stopped in traffic.

**

The next few days throw Harry into an hysterical panicked mess. Internally anyway. His nails have suffered immensely because of it. Because Louis' only been sporadically replying to his texts, and he's not been alone with him since the weekend.

Which. Yeah. It's weird and unsettling, not least because he's used to being alone with Louis so much now, but because he’s  _missed_ him.

He’s missed Louis.

And it's disquieting to Harry, worrisome, because Louis has been distant since Sunday night when they got back from Louis’ mum’s house. Turns out he _was_ being quiet and not just because he was tired from the journey. Harry had implied heavily that he wanted to stay at his that evening, but Louis was acting odd, distracted, even a little aloof.

It was jarring.

He reciprocated Harry's need to touch easily enough, touches that he usually initiated himself, and returning Harry’s kisses lazily at his doorway, but there was a slight pull stopping him from going further, something holding Louis back from completely succumbing to him, and then he was quickly backing out the door, saying he wanted to get back to his and sleep the journey off.

And so he went, leaving Harry a bit perplexed to be honest.

Which must mean Louis obviously regrets taking him home.

Understandable, really. He’s probably got second thoughts about involving his family in this farce, wishes he hadn’t introduced Harry when this isn’t even real in the first place, is it?

What did they even do it for, anyway? Why did Louis? Okay, so it served a purpose in that Jay wouldn’t be shocked if she happened to tune into them on a bloody game show about couples, but they could have just told her the truth afterwards.

This was all supposed to be to win some money. That’s it. And now Harry feels sick. Sick because he's got real feelings for Louis now, hasn’t he? Hideously intense feelings that are torturous and painful and cause Harry ache like he’s missing a limb or something. He’s been constantly nauseous and it’s even seeping into his lit classes. The Romantic Era is now enough to make Harry break into a sweat, feeling utterly miserable when he reads Keats or Wilde or Blake or even Brontë. What was that passage in _Wuthering Heights_?

_'I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions and him entirely and all together.'_

Yeah, Harry is dangerously close to applying these excruciating words to _Louis._ It’s terrifying but also not surprising. He feels quite calm about it, actually, albeit incredibly wretched. Because Louis has only been pretending, passing the time until the recording date arrives, and okay—they might be actual mates now, but that’s as far as it goes.

They make each other feel good. Louis' exact words, weren't they.

Meanwhile Harry has been falling for Louis’ lame sense of humour, and his breathy, obnoxious laugh, and the clear blue green of his eyes, and the way he smells when he’s cuddled up to Harry’s side, that slither of smooth skin on his tummy that he loves to kiss, and the soft strands of his hair after it's mussed from his beanie.

This is stupid. He hates himself for pinning so much on this. Everything is too much. And yet he's still so hopeful this could turn into something real.

He pulls out his phone and starts typing out a text.

_Hey, you okay? Wanna meet later? x_

It only takes about ten seconds for Louis' reply to come through and Harry's heavy chest lightens considerably.

_I'll be round after my morning lecture_

He puts his phone on his night stand and shuts his eyes, willing himself to sleep to stop himself from thinking, before an even more absurd idea pops into his head.

**

It’s been endlessly raining for hours now, the soft patter of drops against his fogged up window lulling a drowsy Harry to sleep, as he lays on his bed, curled in on himself in his sweats while he waits for Louis, who is unusually not answering his phone.

He has received one text though—from a guy last night who Harry stupidly gave his number to, too high and drunk to realise it was a pointless thing to do, when all he wanted was Louis. Louis to mark him up as they idly moved on the dancefloor, kiss him senseless, and take him home. He ignored it and fortunately Rugged Guy hasn’t tried to contact him since. 

When Louis finally does turn up, it’s around four—which wouldn’t normally be an odd thing, except it’s over three hours later than he usually drops by Harry’s dorm after his lecture.

Harry’s taking a rare nap (or trying to, because he’s sent Louis another six stupid texts, unable to keep himself from wondering where he is), when there’s a faint knock at the door. That in itself makes Harry frown, because Louis usually barges right in (Harry leaves it unlocked for him now) or practically takes off the hinges with his incessant, heavy banging which used to make him want to hit Louis over the head with his bedside lamp—now it merely makes him smile fondly as Louis makes himself at home, strolling in with all the air of flamboyance and carefreeness as he always does.

He pads over to the door, cursing the butterflies that are immediately lurching back into action at the possibility of Louis being on the other side, because Harry is lovesick and foolishly pining for someone he isn’t even sure feels the same back. But the second he sees Louis’ face, all the trepidation, worry, and misery melts away and excitement and contentment takes over instead.

Apart from now, that is.

Louis stands at the door, dripping wet and hair matted to his forehead, appearing smaller and more vulnerable than he’s ever seen him. Harry’s heart lurches, almost escaping his chest completely, but before he can ask him what’s wrong Louis is surging towards him and bunching up the fabric of Harry’s sweatshirt in his fists.

“Kiss me,” is all he says, quiet and raspy.

Harry obliges without hesitation, searing their lips together as his foot kicks the door shut and they tumble onto Harry’s bed.

**

They’re in their boxers and nothing else, limbs entangled. Harry’s legs bracket Louis' hips and his fingers press helplessly into Louis’ back, his chest pressed to Harry’s, arms caging him in, his kisses intense despite the slow, almost lazy pace of their mouths moving over the other. Harry feels giddy, almost delirious with how so unbelievably soft and affectionate Louis in being in this moment, stroking his chest and carding his fingers through his curls, peppering his face with chaste kisses and Harry is savouring every second if it, scared that it could suddenly come to an abrupt halt at any moment.

They haven’t talked, see. Have only muttered sparse words indicating the removal of another item of clothing or a quiet instruction. Louis doesn’t seem to want to talk so Harry won’t push it.

Louis pulls off from Harry’s lips with a loud, wet smack, and his nose kind of just softly brushes Harry’s cheek, sending Harry’s already erratic pulse into a frenzy.

Because is Louis nuzzling him? Oh, sweet Jesus, he is, he’s  _nuzzling_  Harry. His fingers move to his hair, gently massaging Louis’s scalp, and watches with rapt attention, immersed and fascinated with the way Louis’ head droops and goes pliant, eyelids fluttering.

He _wants_  Louis. So much.

But then Louis lifts his head and opens his eyes. He looks nervous, on edge, lips pursing tightly together as he meets Harry’s gaze.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Harry breathes, continuing to card his fingers softly through Louis’ hair, pushing his fringe back, letting his hand slide down his face and cups his cheeks. God, he’s so much. Harry is so gone for this boy. “Tell me.”

Louis wets his lips, his stare imploring, breathing laboured. “Do you want to—” he whispers, stops himself, bites his lip instead.

Harry’s heart is stuttering with a breath caught on an unspoken plea. “Will you?”

"What?” Louis whispers.

Harry brings his hands to the back of Louis' neck and pulls him into a soft kiss. Then another. Three more. Lips making a smacking noise each time they briefly part.

He holds Louis’ gaze. “Please, Louis.”  

He’s asking for what they’ve not done yet, what they’ve not allowed themselves to have for fear of it being real. What Harry has being too scared to ask for, for that same reason.

“Do you really want to?” Louis’s hoarse voice wonders aloud, cheeks faintly pinking. 

Harry shakes his head determinedly, almost going cross—eyed from how close their faces are. “Yes, yeah, I want... I want to. If you do, I mean.”

Louis instantly dips back in with his answer, kissing him again deeply, feverish and full of intent. They’re both breathing heavily as they kiss more and more purposefully, knowing it’s leading somewhere, Louis peppering a trail of wet, deep kisses down Harry's heaving chest and then Louis is suddenly leaning back on his haunches, hands finding his own waistband while his eyes stay fixed to Harry, glassy and so blue as he slips off his boxers, his dick springing free, pre-come already leaking at the tip.

So he definitely wants to then. Harry bites down a pleased smile. Louis catches it, and at last he smirks. It’s small but it’s there and a weight is lifted off Harry’s constricting chest, heart hammering almost violently as the pads of his fingers reach out and brush Louis’ stomach, feeling Louis shiver and his muscles spasm at his touch.

“Do you have stuff, Haz?” Louis asks unsteadily, mouthing at Harry’s neck.

“In my bottom draw,” Harry breathes, dipping his chin as he watches Louis scramble to retrieve a bottle of lube and a condom, laughs as Louis nearly falls off the bed in his eager haste. Louis smirks again, splutters out a short burst of laughter, and then wastes no time in pulling down Harry’s boxers too, as Harry reluctantly releases Louis’ hips, lifting his bum up off the bed to help Louis get them off. Harry’s almost painfully hard now, wrecked before they’ve even started and he dips his chin again to see his chest is flushed in blotchy pink. He tips his head back on the pillow and breathes out, releasing a grunt when Louis grips his hips and drags him closer to him, settling comfortably between Harry’s parted legs, bent at the knees.

Louis takes his time fingering Harry open, the mood so different. It's tense, almost as though they’re balancing on a live wire with how electric but how still and calm the air around them feels.

They feel different.

 _Them_.

Harry has no idea what they’re doing, or why they’re not even discussing this first, but he can’t think, not when Louis is pulsing his finger inside him, pushing past his tight entrance, crooking it at an angle that makes his breath stutter and his stomach flinch, as Harry grows increasingly more flustered with every assured pump and stroke and twist of Louis’ fingers sliding in and out of him, moaning unashamedly as he struggles to keep still, hands fisted in the sheets either side of him, mouth invitingly open. Occasionally, Louis will lean up to kiss Harry as he continues to open him up, and Harry eagerly, albeit messily, returns them as Louis swallows his desperate whimpers with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

After a while, Harry breaks off. “Okay, okay,” he pants, running a hand absently through his hair, “'m ready,” he mumbles, head lulling to the side on his pillow, eyes drooping closed. “Please, fuck me."

He looks up in time to see Louis’ genuine smile, and then his features morph into a more serious expression, teeth worrying his bottom lip, brows pinched. Harry’s met with blue eyes full of want as Louis slides the condom down his length, lubing himself up and coating another finger to circle Harry’s entrance, teasing him a little more.

“Louis, please,” Harry whines, squirming on the bed, reaching out for him urgently.

"Alright, babe. So gorgeous, aren't you?" Louis murmurs. Then slowly, Louis drags his length over Harry’s hole, and pushes inside Harry until he bottoms out, hips pressed snugly to Harry’s, whose own breathing is now coming out in short pants. Harry wraps his arms and legs back around him, squeezing Louis’ body close, chin hooked over Louis’ shoulder as Louis’ hands dig firmly into his waist.

“Please,” Harry breathes. “Will you just—”

“Alright,” Louis says, a smile in his voice.

Louis starts moving, face buried in Harry’s neck, with shallow thrusts that are deliberate, unhurried, before he begins to steadily thrust deeper, faster, the feeling so good that it makes Harry’s eyes roll into the back of his head and paw at Louis’ back helplessly.

“Ah, fuck,” Louis moans after a while as their hips slide together, Louis pressing his weight further onto Harry as he tightens his legs, hugging Louis’ waist, gripping him as close as possible.

Louis’ thrusts start to speed up more, skin slapping against skin, their mingling pants and moans unrelenting in the otherwise silent dorm room.

Harry meets Louis’ thrusts frantically, losing himself completely in trying to reach his climax but at the same time wanting this to last as long as possible. Wants to have Louis for as long as possible. He pushes himself back on the bed, reaches his arms behind himself and grips onto the headboard, the mattress squeaking with Louis’ every deep glide into Harry’s body, moving his hands up to clasp Harry’s at shoulders, dipping down to suck Harry's nipple into his mouth, Harry gasping in surprise. Louis looks back up, eyes impishly pleased. Harry smiles lazily, eyes closed.

They start to get louder, their moans and chants mixing together as Louis finally hits Harry’s spot and Harry cries out brokenly, whines as his arms immediately wrap back around Louis’ now damp and clammy back, lips mouthing clumsily at Louis’ cheek, breathing heavily. Louis lifts himself up and stands on his knees, moving to pull Harry even closer, wrapping his arms around Harry's thighs, bending him almost in half. He manages another half a dozen more thrusts, before slowing down significantly and then Louis comes with a string of whimpering moans, collapsing onto Harry’s flushed, sweat sheened chest.

It only takes a few more firm grinds and couple more rolls of Louis’ hips and Harry’s body is tensing up, shuddering with a shrill whine as he shoots hard up his upper body. Louis grabs hold of his dick and strokes him through his orgasm, Harry's pants muffled into the pillow.

They lay there, spent and messy, hugging each other tight as their strenuous breaths gradually calm down. Harry unthinkingly smudges a lazy kiss to the side of Louis’ mouth, who pecks him once before he buries his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. He feels Louis press a smattering of lingering kisses there, drowning in every sensation he leaves tingling his heated skin. Louis lifts his head and Harry meets his gaze, glossy blue mixing with glassy green. They just breathe, keeping eye contact, and then Louis pulls out, removes the condom and blindly chucks it accurately into Harry’s bin under his desk. Show off.

After a few more languid moments of kissing quietly, Harry opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling, feeling impending doom take over his cloudy, sex hazy thoughts, fingers still twisted in Louis’ mussed hair.

He doesn’t know what they’re doing anymore. Are they officially going with the friends with benefits thing now? Are they more than that? Does Louis want more than that? Or is it just the benefits Louis likes?

These are all very important things Harry would like to know, needs to know.

They stare in silence, and Harry risks another kiss, soft and measured, which Louis easily returns.

He doesn’t know what they’re doing, is pretty certain Louis doesn’t either, but he’ll take what he can get, for as long as Louis will let him.

They’ll have to figure the rest out later.

**

If Niall has come back to their dorm sometime within the last few hours, he must have seen them. The thought sends Harry into a mortified panic. They’re right here, lying naked and tangled up together on top of Harry’s bedsheets. He hopes they’ve some dignity left and Niall _hasn't_ come back while they’ve been asleep. Even though this is his room too. Harry does feel a bit guilty about that.

Harry tries to lift his head to catch a glimpse of the time on his phone. Harry feels anxious about the idea that Niall has seen them like this, doesn’t want to know what the hell Niall will probably have to say about it, and with great difficultly, begins to move under Louis’ pliant, sleeping form, careful not to wake him.

He succeeds. Harry rolls from under him and watches with fondness as Louis frowns, hugging the duvet to himself at the loss of warmth from Harry’s body, and tip toes to the bathroom.

When he comes back Louis is fully in his bed, under the covers, the top of his lovely hair poking out, distractedly thinks of him as a cute, tiny woodland creature burrowed in his bed when Niall comes bounding through the door.

“Shit, it’s absolutely pissing it down out there. Have you been—” Niall stops in his tracks, as Harry positively glares with all his might, eyes practically popping out of their sockets as he mimes for Niall to be fucking quiet, gesturing slicing his neck off.

Niall’s stunned face quickly morphs into absolute  _glee_. Harry is mortified and annoyed and not at all ready for Niall’s happy told you so’s. Niall has to bodily restrain himself from jumping on the spot and claps both of his hands over his mouth, face going pink while he holds in his manic cackles most likely.

“I swear to God, Niall,” Harry threatens silently, mouthing the words. “Get out and come back when I say it’s clear?” he half whispers, half mouths, frantically trying to remove Niall from the scene before Louis wakes up and inflicts a Louis shaped hole in the door.

Niall throws his head back in silent laughter and slowly backs out of the room, making obscene gestures with his hand.

Harry glares until the door shuts. He receives a text five seconds later:

_You better hurry the fuck up and tell me everything!!!_

Harry huffs briefly before his attention snaps back to the soft, sleepy whining noises coming from under his covers, where a beautiful, pliant boy is curled up in his bed. Harry smiles to himself as he types out a reply.

_Get used to disappointment_

_Don’t Princess Bride me_

Harry snuggles back into bed, this time climbing in behind Louis as carefully as he can, moulding his body around his delicate sleeping form and gently plants his hands on Louis’ stomach. He stirs for a split second and Harry freezes, stiffens even further and fears for his own life when Louis’ hands rest upon his, leaning back into Harry’s front, briefly wonders what will happen when Louis wakes up before he dozes back to sleep.

**

It seems Louis woke up first. A while ago in fact, because he’s already dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed with a bowl of cereal in his lap, munching with a heavy-eyed smile, hair still ruffled and un-styled. Harry sleepily registers the fact Louis looks effortlessly gorgeous, wearing one of Harry's jumpers, practically drowning in it. Louis swallows his spoonful of cornflakes. “Hi.” he smiles easily, tongue licking out over his bottom lip.

Harry struggles to open his eyes, probably has crease marks on his face, his hair a dishevelled muddle of long-ish brown waves, strands obscuring his vision. “Hi,” he says, voice gruff from disuse. “Time is it?”

“About half eight,” Louis smiles, eyes puffy but content. “You were out like a light.” He brushes a feather light hand over Harry’s bare forearm closest to his lap. Harry shivers at the contact. It’s intimate, familiar, almost like second nature to Louis. Hope rises once more.

“Well, so were you about—” Harry pauses to check his phone and Niall’s nonstop, excitable texts, “six-ish?” lips pressed in a lethargic, close-mouthed smile.

“Yeah, um,” Louis coughs awkwardly, though there’s a bashful look on his face, cheeks pink and lips shiny from his evening breakfast. “We must have worn ourselves out.”

There’s a beat of silence, both of them keeping their mouths in firm lines in order to keep a straight face, before they burst into a fit of happy giggles. Louis uses the back of his palm to stifle the cereal in his mouth from spraying all over Harry’s delighted face. “Ugh! Close your mouth, you pig,” Harry practically guffaws. "This my bed!"

"The sheets need changing anyway," Louis rolls his eyes. 

"Oh. Yeah," Harry realises, inspecting his sheets.

Louis screams with his mouth closed, muffled and hysterical, milk dribbling down his jumper.

“You’re such a messy pup," Harry shakes his head.

“You’re such a charmer,” Louis feebly tries an eyeroll, face instead breaking into a happy, relaxed grin.

Once their shared ridiculous smiles that make their faces ache and their raucous, easy laughter dies down, Harry sits up, sheet pooling in his lap, and licks his lips, running a hand through his hair, and absently touches the ends, quietly observing Louis, who sets down the bowl on Harry’s night stand, and settles back on the edge of the bed, shuffling a little closer.

He sets another warm hand over Harry’s arm, stroking up and down in a soothing motion, captivating Harry enough to involuntary lean into the touch, head drooping to the side slightly.

Harry swallows his nerves, getting ready to finally bite the bullet and ask Louis the essential question that’s been weighing down on his mind since he realised he has feelings for a boy who manages to somehow make an incredible mess of something as simple as boiling pasta.

But before Harry can utter any words, Louis’ mouth is suddenly on his, tongue slipping inside as he kisses Harry deeply, urgent and insistent. What was he saying? Harry blindly winds his arms around Louis’ neck and pulls him on top of him, kissing him back with rousing heat pooling in his gut.

Louis pulls away, panting, beaming wide and earnestly. Harry exhales, disorientated. “Wanna go to the pub? Last night and then it’s Friday,” he wiggles his eyebrows.

“What’s Friday?” Harry’s brow pinch.

Louis’ shoulders deflate, a short burst of laughter escaping his reddened lips. Harry’s gaze falls back to them. “Harry? We’ve got the show?” he laughs again. “Did you forget? March the 30th, remember?”

Fuck. Is it time to film the show already? How the hell did the time go by so quickly? Oh, yes, that's right. Harry was too busy falling for Louis. What an easy ride that's been. “Oh. I didn’t realise it was here already,” Harry chuckles mildly.

He’d rather they just forget about the bloody show now. But Louis’ got his rent to pay, hasn’t he? It would be brilliant if Louis didn’t have to worry about that if they win anything. He just hopes Louis’ still as eager to kiss him as he is currently.

“You suck at time keeping,” Louis says, pecking a kiss to his chin.

“Excuse me? I’m fantastic at it. It’s you. You’ve rubbed off on me," Harry smiles dopily.

Louis just smiles, getting up and flicking his fringe out of his eyes. “Come on. Get dressed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

Doesn’t Harry know it.

**

The pub visit only serves to confuse and worry Harry further about the status and label of their relationship. Can Harry call it that? Who knows, all he does know is that their friends seem like they've made a pact to go out of their way to embarrass them.

Liam lovingly, but rather unhelpfully whispered in his ear as he set his beer down, "So are you in love with our Louis yet?" winking as he sat down, smug. Harry gave him his best pair of evils, while Niall sent him a continuous flow of knowing smirks. Harry wanted to strangle them both as an unaware, unsurprisingly tipsy Louis happily joked and played absently with Harry's hair, giving him both heart palpation and soothing them at the same time.

Louis is currently sitting in Harry's lap, arms wound around Harry's back, Harry's hands comfortably gripping Louis' lovely thighs. They spend the entire time whispering, ignoring the sly comments and infantile giggles from their mates sat watching them like they're on one of those trashy reality shows. "You two are so cute together," Niall chirps, hand leaning against his cheek as he swirls the straw in Jade's gin and tonic, who is beaming at them like she's literally found out Disneyland has moved into her back garden. 

"When's the date set, then?" Liam sits back with his arms crossed, smile knowing and entirely too self-satisfied. 

"Date?" Harry frowns. Louis happily swings his legs, taking a swig from Harry's bottle of beer, stealing it right out of Harry's hand. Of course he allows it. He's hard pressed to not agree to anything Louis wants lately. Maybe he should be concerned at how easily he gives into him, but if it puts that sheer look of wonderful joy on his beautiful face, obviously Harry's going to let him run circles around his sad, pathetic, smitten self.

"For the wedding," Liam smirks. Niall throws his head back and cackles. 

"Oh, my God, you have to let me be your bridesmaid," Jade insists, eyes already sightlessly scanning the room as she probably thinks up dress ideas she could start putting together in her fashion seminars. 

"Wedding?" Louis suddenly asks, rather sloshed now, cheeks pink, and well, fucking glowing. Harry stares up at him, completely engrossed, probably appears he's had a stroke with how intently he's not moving a muscle in his face as he longingly keeps his eyes on Louis' crinkled creases beside his own. "What? Who's getting married?" he shouts.

"Yours, Lou. Yours and Harry's," Liam laughs, watching them with an amused tilt to his mouth. Harry glares at him, glances up at Louis to see the smile fall right off his face. Well, shit. That's a bit worrying.

"Don't be stupid," Louis says, cheeks twitching.

Then he's shifting on Harry's lap, unceremoniously climbing into the next chair. 

"I reckon Louis will have proposed by Christmas, Niall? Jade?" Liam asks, feigning innocence. 

Liam's on thin ice right now. What's he doing? Trying to scare Louis off him completely??

"What are you betting on us or something?" Harry accuses.

Liam presses his lips together and the other two start giggling.

"Oh, fucking brilliant," Harry scowls. 

"What's the matter?" Jade laughs. "You's two are so obviously crazy in love, it's sickening! You'll be married in time. I'd bet good money on it," she sits back, proud and annoyingly confident.

"You really should have gotten your act together sooner, you know," Liam continues, oblivious. "Would have saved you all that time and misery pretending to hate each other when you were actually too afraid to put your real feelings on the line. You're the worst of the two, Lou," he says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You silly idiot. Glad you seem to have got things sorted at last."

Jade looks a bit puzzled. "Have you been fighting? You been having lover's tiffs, guys?" she frowns.

Liam freezes. "Um?"

"Could say that," Niall mutters, smirking, locking eyes with Harry, who frowns, uncomfortable, and then feels positively petrified when Niall's smirk drops, gaze falling to Louis.

Harry looks to him, chest lurching at the way Louis' staring fixedly, intently at a puddle of tonic water on the dark brown, sticky wood of the table, face devoid of any happiness that was there before. Instead he looks almost scared? Anxious? To be honest he looks like someone's just run over his dog.

"Lou," Harry says quietly.

The table goes quiet too.

"I'm just gonna go outside for a ciggy," Louis announces.

"Okay, I'll come with you," Harry starts, getting up.

Louis doesn't answer, just walks right out the pub's doors and into the cold night air.

When Harry gets outside, Louis' sitting at a table in the front garden, smoking erratically, legs shaking obsessively, tapping his fingers atop the table. Harry risks coming up behind him and embracing Louis in an affectionate hug, circling his back and shoulders, a far more domestic gesture than they've engaged in so far, even more than the exaggerated shows they've put on for the times when they've been in public. Harry buries his nose in Louis' neck and kisses the smooth skin there, moving down to run his lips over his bare, goosebumped shoulder. He's wearing a black vest and no jacket. Idiot. He'll freeze out here. "Hey," he whispers, instantly feeling more settled when Louis leans back into his front, exhaling another drag of smoke. Harry takes the almost stubbed out cigarette off Louis and inhales a drag himself, turning his head to exhale, returning his face to Louis' neck. His hair's getting a bit long now and he breathes in Louis' sharp, vanilla-ish scent, one he's grown so used to, he's not sure he can stand not having it anymore. It's addicting, and comforting and Harry is so, so gone, isn't he?

How the fuck did he get to this place?

Louis stubs his cigarette into the ashtray, then turns around in Harry's bent over hold and hugs Harry tight, pecks his cheek once. Harry shuts his eyes, aware that he's close to getting emotional or something equally as embarrassing, Jesus.

Louis pulls back to fix blue, unwavering eyes on him, calm and serious. He opens his mouth to say something, but his brows briefly knit together and he sighs, thinking better of it. 

"You okay?" Harry asks, stomach in knots.

Louis gives him a softly pressed smile, nodding. "Can we go to yours?" he asks hopefully.

Harry nods without hesitation.

**

So he wasn't expecting Louis to practically jump on him as soon as they got through the door, not after the heaviness at the pub. But it's not like he's complaining, not while Louis' practically mauling his neck and working up a a very attractive sweat. 

"Harry!" Louis shouts, breathless and panting, as Harry grunts through his giggles as he thrusts upwards. Louis' currently riding Harry, bouncing up and down relentlessly as the bed frame shakes and the mattress creaks against the wall. "Ah, ah, ah!"

"Quick! Faster!" Harry guffaws, eyes sparkling, sweat beading at his hairline. Louis shifts, grinning like a maniac who thinks he's a genius when he scrapes together Harry's wild hair into a make shift bun with his hand, holding it up and continuing his steady, fast paced bounces. 

"You're gonna break me bum!" Louis gasps, eruptions of laughter seeping through his pants. 

"What about my dick?!" Harry protests, beaming up at him. Louis leans down to give him a filthy, noisy kiss.

He manages to stay like that for a while until Harry starts to thrust deeper up into him, gripping so tightly at Louis' hips, he's sure he'll leave bruises in the morning. He reaches his head up for a sloppy, barely there kiss, missing Louis' mouth and getting his chin instead, who's currently mewling on his dick, eliciting sounds from his constantly agape mouth that are so hot Harry may very well come right this second. Louis lets out a yelp when Harry hits his spot, aiming for it relentlessly as Louis cries out and lets go of his hair, almost toppling over completely if Harry weren't holding him up like his life depends on it. "Oh, god, Harry. You're so good, so good," he pants, eyes slipping closed as his hands clasp at Harry's shoulders, who's sitting with his back to the headboard and gradually slipping down the bed the more frantic they get. 

Harry groans. "Ugh, Louis." He's meeting Louis' every bounce, thrusting as fast as he can manage. "Fuck! We're gonna wake up the people in the next room," he shrieks, laughing so hard he may as well have just smoked a joint and moaning simultaneously as Louis removes his hands from his sweaty shoulders, smirking.

"Please," Louis says breathless. "Jade and Jesy probably have glasses on the other side of the wall, trying to listen in. The perverts!" he yells. "Any minute now, Niall and Liam will walk in and take a seat."

Harry's eyes widen, and he cackles, completely lost in the moment, caught in his frenzied laughter and sheer euphoria, in Louis' intoxicating attention, in everything he stirs up and brings out of Harry's cells. 

"Oh, fuck. Harry, I'm gonna come," Louis moans, bounces faltering and then he's tensing up and burying his face in Harry's neck as he comes all over Harry's chest. Harry follows not long after, clutches Louis' hips in a death grip, panting for air and kisses Louis' head with little kitten kisses, smiling down at him as Louis lifts up his sweaty, wrecked face.

He holds onto this for as long as the night allows, can't remember what it ever felt like to not have a mantra of _LouisLouisLouis_ plastered to his brain.

Tomorrow can take as long as it likes to arrive.

**

It's a long day of cameras in their faces, producers and other important members of the show's crew reading out bits of information and instructions off clipboards to them, and thus Harry and Louis come back from the show reel taping in two very different spirits.

Louis is bouncing around like he’s been knocking back shots, and Harry... Well, he’s not. Because, Louis it seemed, was in his element, playing up the affectionate touches, and bursting with pride and compliments for Harry, upping the cheese factor to dizzying heights that Harry had no idea he was capable of.

To say it unsettled him, poked at his heart and prodded at his delicate innards, and vulnerable feelings would be an understatement, because Harry believed it, fell completely for every tender slide of Louis’ palm in his, every beaming smile he directed his way, every lovely word about their ‘relationship’, and the producers and crew members were practically bloody swooning at the spectacle.

Louis was in his element, talking about the two’s history and romanticising it to the max, keeping close to the truth but leaving out the parts about the two boys not being able to stand each other for most of their school careers.

Harry didn’t have to do much, or even say a lot to be honest. Just nodded blindly, agreeing with everything as he got lost in Louis’ loving gazes, infatuated with his every move, every joke and every bit of eye contact he threw Harry’s way.

Fuck. Oh, god. The worst has happened. He knows it. Harry’s in deep shit. He’s fucked. Utterly and irrevocably.

Not least because when they get into their hotel room for the night, the bed is a fucking double. Obviously. Why wouldn’t it be? They’re contestants on a game show for couples for Christ’s sake. Of course the room is meant for two.

But the obvious is playing on Harry's mind and he doesn't know if he can do this tonight.

“Oh,” Louis says, nonplussed. “Thought I asked for two singles.” Harry isn’t quite convinced he did though, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. Did Louis want them to make sure it had a double bed? What exactly is he expecting tonight? Another round like yesterday? Not that Harry isn’t willing, or up for anything Louis wants to give him. Unfortunately. Because Harry is a lovesick sap. The longing and yearning and pining is at an all time high now that they’re sleeping together. In both senses. It makes it feel that much more real. Like they're real.

And now they’re staying in a room together and Harry doesn’t know whether he wants to climb the walls and bail or fuck Louis into oblivion all night.

This is hell.

Harry’s never felt this constantly nauseous before. And god, that’s a bad sign, isn’t it? 

Louis does a little, cute run up and jumps onto the bed with gusto, seemingly not as put off as his tone suggested at the double bed they’re supposed to be sharing. “Guess they assumed we were together then. Good job, fake boyfriend,” Louis winks.

Harry feels an unbelievable stab at the word ‘fake’, at the implication this is all still pretend. He might cry, actually. He might actually fucking cry. But still, Harry doesn’t make any noise of protest since they’ve been sharing a bed over the last week anyway, even if it hasn’t been for the whole night. Though Harry feels an overwhelming mixture of uncomfortable apprehensiveness and stark desire to be close to Louis, have his front plastered to his back or vice versa. He’s not fussy, just wants to be near him.

Did Harry mention this was hell?

Louis lounges on the bed with impish eyes and a elongated grin, his stomach revealing a slither of smooth, caramel soaked skin as his shirt rides up to his belly button, one arm propping up his head, his grey beanie askew. “What?” he says, smile faltering the longer Harry stays silent, awkwardly standing at the foot of the bed, unsure of what to do with his hands.

“What? I’m just tired.”

“Okay,” Louis says immediately, scooting back up the bed and removing his brogues, feet bare. “Let’s have a snooze for  a bit.” He smiles, undeterred by Harry’s unusually quiet demeanour. “Come on.” Louis pats the bed expectantly. “We’ll order room service. Might as well take advantage of the perks of this place.”

“Are you sure we don’t have to pay for it? The mini fridge usually has to be charged for.” Harry says, moving languidly towards the bed.

“Oh, he speaks! I’m glad, Harold. Thought I was going to have to start arguing with myself.”

Harry smirks, chuckling before Louis’ gripping his wrist and tugging Harry to him.

“What are you doing?” Harry giggles full out as Louis pulls him flat over his chest so that Harry’s pretty much draped over Louis’ body  like a human blanket.

Wordlessly, Louis wraps his arms around Harry and tightens his comforting, soothing hold on his waist, turning his face inwards, nuzzling Harry’s mussed hair. Harry takes this as an easy cue to bury his own face happily in the crook of Louis’ neck, inhaling his familiar scent leisurely, letting the warmth of Louis relax him instantaneously, a calmness stretching out and burrowing within every single cell in Harry’s body, exhaling in and out with calming breaths.

“Lou, do you think we’ll do well tomorrow?” he mutters lazily.

“We’ll smash it, mate,” Louis murmurs into his hair immediately, no hesitation.

Harry closes his eyes and lets sleep pull him under, wondering what it would be like to always have this, to always be wrapped up in Louis’ arms, safe and wanted.

Even if it’s just pretend.

**

The studio is bright, heaving with showy, tacky amounts of shiny surfaces and glittery banisters. The floors of the stage catch the blinding lights that are hung above on the ceiling, metal contraptions housing the endless spotlights, a blue and pink hue about the studio. Around the tight space are massively bulky, jet black cameras, wires and cables strewn about on the ground, surrounding the stage area, intimidating waiting to be put to use, a flurry of camera men and women rushing around like headless chickens, head pieces on as they instruct floor managers and countless runners of urgent tasks.

And it’s fucking hot.

Harry’s literally sweltering, his black blouse and blazer sticking to his back uncomfortably. The audience is packed and brimming with muffled voices as they await recording to commence. A comedian comes onto the stage to warm them up but it does nothing to calm Harry’s nerves, and the guy’s jokes are average at best. He swears his are better even if Louis calls all of his embarrassingly bad, and yet still laughs like they’re the funniest ones he’d ever heard. Louis’ adorable kitten giggles that he hides with his small hands.

Oh, god.

He’s shaking like a leaf, jittery and so on edge, he might snap at anyone who even glances at him with anything less than an amiable expression. He knows the questions won’t be a problem; he knows Louis like the back of his hand by now. The game will be simple, uncomplicated, straightforward. But it’s not the game he’s worried about. It’s what he’s decided on asking Louis afterwards. After they hopefully manage to win the jackpot.

It can’t just be Harry who’s feeling these... things. It can’t just be Harry who falls asleep with Louis’ face painted on the backs of his eyelids, or has the sound of his laugh ringing in his ears.

Because Harry isn’t faking it anymore, is he? If he ever was. He just desperately needs to know if Louis still is, or he’ll explode into a puddle of sad, unrequited love soaked goo right on the floor of this studio. 

Maybe he really will be a sad, tragic immortalized statue on that bench on campus.

**

The filming gets under way on schedule. 

The presenter's name is Holly and she's bubbly and a calming enough presence to get them through the taping. She calls their names to the stage after their couple reel has been shown to the audience on the big screen, and then turns her attention to Harry and Louis, launching into a bit about how they met and whatnot, adding in a few lame jokes here and there, and then runs through the rules of the game.

The first round will be Harry answering three multiple choice questions about Louis while he's got earphones on and is blind folded, and Harry's answers have to match Louis' when he gives his afterwards. The second round involves _this or that_ questions and their answers again have to match. If they pass both of these, they get to go through to the last and final round where the actual money is won, and Louis will answer questions about Harry, like in the first. 

Easy enough. Harry tries to focus on what the presenter is saying rather than the eyes on them in the packed audience.

"So, Harry, Louis, are you ready to start the game?" beams Holly, excitable smile stuck to her immaculate face. 

"We are indeed," Louis answers for them, smiling and appearing as cool as a cucumber. 

"Right, then. Louis, if you'd like to enter our cylinder and pop your headphones and blindfold on," Holly gestures over to a glittery, silver cylinder shaped podium with glass encompassing it, soundproof apparently.

Harry smiles from his own podium fondly as Louis gets into the glass cylinder and struggles a bit to lift himself atop the stool. He’s perched with his legs dangling and puts on the glittery blindfolded sunglasses and headphones, instantly bopping to whatever track is playing.

Harry bites down another smile and turns his attention to the interviewer.

"Let's just check he can't hear a thing. Louis, can you hear us?" she asks loudly.

Nope, seems Louis' oblivious. He's quite adorable in his dark, knitted jumper, his jeans rolled up and revealing his petite ankles as usual. Harry can't stop beaming at him.

“Okay, Harry, once you've torn your eyes away from that stunning one up there," she quips, chuckling. "Are you ready for your first three questions about Louis?” the presenter smiles, all white teeth and pale blonde hair.

“I’m ready,” Harry nods. He can’t stop swallowing, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his makeup clad temple.

“Okay, Harry. Question number one,” she says, feigning seriousness and Harry shoots another sideways glance over to Louis, gesturing the most ridiculous hand moves to the song in his headphones, and feels an immense sense of pride when the audience starts to burst into genuine laughter. (Harry decides it is even if it’s not, because Louis is hilarious.) “Someone’s enjoying themselves in there!” The presenter comments, seeming genuinely charmed.

Harry beams so hard his face is starting to ache, crosses his ankles as he stands and flexes his fingers reflexively.

“Which of the following _Friends characters_ would Louis say best describes him?” It’s a random question but they were asked by the producers to give them a collection of subjects and favourite things to create their individual questions out of. It’s a good one and Harry’s pretty confident he knows the answer, based on the multiple nights they spent on Harry’s bed watching episodes on his laptop.

“Would it be Monica? Organised, high-maintenance and always, always right." Holly reads off her card, putting on her best announcer voice. "Would it be Phoebe? Blunt, a bit weird and extremely confident with her appearance. Or would it be Chandler? Sarcastic, the joker, and never one to miss taking advantage of embarrassing his friends?”

“Ooh. This is harder than I expected,” Harry says, overly-dramatic. It's not at all. “He’s a bit of all three, really," he says conversationally, milking and playing this thing up. "But I think I can rule out Monica because he’s definitely not organised, even though he can be a bit of a handful at times, and yeah, he does think he’s right most of the time as well. Can't really learn to bite his tongue, you know?”

The audience laughs on cue, and Harry internally eyerolls.

“Right,” the presenter laughs. “Messy then?”

“Oh, god, yeah. He leaves a trail of mess behind wherever he goes.”

More (fake) laughter. But real to Harry.

“You can only pick one though, I’m afraid, and it does have to match Louis’ answer,” Holly presses. 

“Okay, so it’s definitely a tossup between Phoebe and Chandler.”

“Talk us through why.”

Really? 

“Well, he can be very blunt sometimes, and honest, and I think he definitely knows how gorgeous he is,” he coos. The audience releases a mixture of ooh's and soft laughter.

“A bit vain, is he? Your Louis?” she grins with shockingly red lips.

Harry’s heart contracts at ‘ _Your Louis’._

“Yeah, just a bit,” Harry replies, smiling, voice unbelievably soft. He’s suddenly hit with the mortifying probability that his mum will be watching this when it airs. He’s already had to lie to Louis’ family about their relationship but his mum has no idea. 

Hopefully, though, it won't have to be a lie for much longer. Anyway. Where was he?

“So, what’s your answer, Harry? I’m going to have to push you.”

Harry shakes his fuzzy head, the lights of the studio practically baking his chest, and melting his face off. “Chandler,” he decides on.

“Final answer?”

“Yep. I think he’d definitely go for that one.” He’s pretty sure anyway. The presenter shoots him another winning smile and writes down Harry’s answer on her card.

“Okay. Next question.”

Harry’s eyes wander back to Louis, still going at it with the embarrassing middle aged man's dance moves. He smirks, besotted with him. Good god. When did he get so soft over Louis? It’s still a weird thing to get his head around, but somehow at the same time, it’s not. It feels completely normal and right and... Harry is so screwed.

“What would Louis say is his most annoying habit?”

“God, we’ll be here all night,” Harry quips. Cue more predictable audience laughter. Harry half expects someone to be holding up a sign saying ‘LAUGH’ at them. He's surprised to find they're not.

“Would it be his carelessness with money? Would it be how loud and rowdy he tends to get?” Holly pauses. “With or without alcohol?” she smirks and the audience laughs again. They're relentless, he'll give them that. “Or is it his inability to not wear socks?”

“Oh, definitely his carelessness with money.”

“Really?” Holly makes an teasing unimpressed face. “Easy that one,” Holly comments and goes on to the next question. “Okay, last question. If Louis was a song, which one would he say he’d be?”

Ooh. Interesting.

“Would it be Uptown Funk by Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars?” Hmm. He might go for that. “Look After You by The Fray.” Oh. A pang. He’s suddenly hit with a flashback of a fifteen year old Louis singing that song for a school assembly. He was so nervous but he sounded so angelic and pure. And then he called him ‘fuckface’ straight after. Good times. “Or would it be Anaconda by Nicki Minaj?”

“Oh my god,” Harry laughs, clapping a hand over his mouth as the audience bursts into hysterics.

“Yeah, interesting one, that one,” Holly agrees, laughing as well.

“Um,” Harry crosses his arms. “I mean there’s a good chance he might go for Anaconda. Oh, god,” he says, covering his face, cheeks flushing.

More laughs.

“I’m going to have to press for an answer, Harry,” she grins.

“No, I think he’d go for Look After You. I know how much that song means to him and he’s definitely a big softie at heart, no matter how he pretends he isn’t. He’s very romantic,” he tacks on.

“Aww, sweet,” Holly comments, smile glinting in the studio lights. “That’s lovely, Harry. Alright, so we’ve got out answers. Let’s get Louis back out. Hello, Louis!”

Louis slips off the stool, a little off balance, a blinding grin on his face. He's completely unfazed and Harry just wants to hold his hand. So he does.

"Okay, Louis. We asked Harry three questions about you. The first being, Which of the following _Friends characters_ would you say best describes you? Would it be Monica? Organised, high-maintenance and always, always right. Would it be Phoebe? Blunt, a bit weird and extremely confident with her appearance or would it be Chandler? Sarcastic, the joker, and never one to miss taking advantage of embarrassing his friends?"

Louis looks highly amused, glancing sideways at Harry, hands clasped in his lap as he stand, legs far apart. "Oh, as much as I think Harry probably thinks I'm Phoebe, I'm saying Chandler."

"That's a match!" Holly exclaims.

"Woo!" Louis high fives Harry. "Yes, get in," he smiles.

Louis gets the second question right as well, this time kissing Harry on the lips, grinning manically. "We're on a roll, love!"

"If you were a song, Louis, what one would you be?" 

Louis makes a face at Anaconda, though he waggles his eyebrows suggestively, earning another burst of laughter from the audience. Louis loves it. But he goes with The Frays' 'Look After You' like Harry knew he would. His voice is all soft, cheeks blushing slightly as he admits he's very in touch with his emotional side. Harry has to look away, beaming so hard it might split his face open.

"And after that first round on _How Well Do You Know Your Spouse?,_ Harry and Louis, you have three matches! _"_

**

After a quick break and a few slurps of tea, they're called onto the stage floor again.

The second round is a speedy affair. 

Harry and Louis are standing between a glittering stand, obscuring their view of each other, each holding two paddles in each hand with their names on, having to lift one up when they've got their answer.

“Who is the messiest?” Holly's voice asks, Harry and Louis facing the audience and the countless cameras and faces wearing head pieces.

Harry wastes no time in lifting up his Louis paddle, smirking.

A ding rings out. Louis must have chosen himself. At least he knows.

“Who is the most romantic?”

Fuck. Okay. Harry goes for himself because how is he supposed to know what Louis' like when he's in love? They certainly haven't done anything of the sort. _Yet_ , he reminds himself. Because he's going to put himself out there and tell Louis how he feels right after this is over. And hopefully richer. And obviously, it's Harry. Everyone knows he's obsessed with romance and all things relating to L-O-V-E.

A flat noise sounds out.

Harry pokes his head round to Louis' side, incredulous. "Are you kidding me?"

Louis shrugs, smiling, pleased.

“Who is the best cook?”

A ding almost immediately. Obviously it's Harry.

“Who gets the grumpiest?”

Harry lifts his Louis paddle after a bit of consideration.

Another ding. Get in. 

“Who is the last to get of bed?”

Another ding. Louis. Obviously.  

“Who wastes the most money?”

Louis again. He has the good sense to know that too since there's yet another correct answer from them both.

They're told to put the paddles into the pocket on the wall. They managed 5/6 and are through to the next round if the next two couples filming get any less.

**

They're through to the last round. 

Thank god.

Now it's Harry's turn to get into the glass cylinder, popping on the glitter sunglasses and headphones. The 1975 instantly starts pumping in his ears, and he dances stupidly along, knowing Louis will laugh.

He waits about twenty minutes, he reckons, before he's being called out and asked to give his own answers to the questions Louis was asked about Harry. £5000 for each correct answer and a bonus question about Louis at the end to double their money. 

The first two are simple enough. Harry's place of birth, including the hospital. Louis actually got it right. Harry rewards him with a high five and a quick peck on the mouth, legs wobbling with affection. Louis beams at him. The second one is another easy enough question that they've gone through plenty of times before much to Louis' dismay, and it's what is Harry's favourite meal. It's a broccoli and ham risotto. One of Jamie Oliver's. Louis was disgusted until Harry made it for him and loved it. Menace.  And the third. Harry's favourite football player. David Beckham. Not hard at all. 

Now they're at the bonus question. £15,000 already under their belts. Louis bounces up and down in pent up, excitable energy. 

"Now, for a chance to double your prize fund. We asked Louis: What was the name of the band that Harry attended his first ever gig?” Holly repeats the question for Harry to hear. 

Shit.

Louis doesn’t know.

Louis doesn’t know that seventeen year old Harry bought two tickets to see The Script knowing Louis liked the band, in hopes of striking up a friendship with him. He wanted to try getting along with Louis for once, see where it took them. But obviously that didn’t happen. He found out Louis was already going with another boy before he could offer him the ticket. Harry ended up going with his older sister in the knowledge Louis was there too with someone else.

“Louis, you said Nickelback."

Harry smirks for a split second at Louis’ answer before the presenter reveals it’s wrong, watches Louis’ face as the wide grin falters and then wipes off completely. He whips around to face Harry, clearly surprised it’s the wrong answer. Harry didn’t tell him about the real answer obviously.

Harry had spotted him by the fountain outside the front entrance of the main building. Louis was tapping away at his phone, brows concentrated and wearing burgundy jeans rolled up at the ends as usual, flaunting his dainty tanned ankles and momentarily distracting Harry from what he planned to stroll over and ask him.

See, after the last few weeks he had spent moping (yeah, did he say it was a day? Harry is a liar) like a pathetic idiot and listening to far too much Adele (that part was true) on a continuous loop, (and after far too many naked Louis based, filthy dreams) Harry had bit the bullet and bought the tickets.

Two tickets to see The Script on that Saturday coming.

And he fully intended on asking Louis to go with him.

Madness. It was fucking mad but following much consideration and late-night, drunkenly vague talks with Liam, Harry thought it could work.

Harry and Louis could be friends. He was sick of fighting and after what had happened, Harry wanted to give them a try. At being friends. _Friends_ first. (He’d hope for more later.) Baby steps, and all that. He didn't want to scare Louis before he'd even tried. He just had to convince the git to stop hurling insults at him for five seconds and maybe he would get somewhere.

And what better way was there to butter him up than to buy Louis a ticket to see one of his favourite bands, right?

Right.

So, that’s what Harry did. He was doing this. He was actually going to ask him. Harry prayed Louis wouldn’t instantly tell Harry to fuck off upon his probably unwelcome arrival or he would shove him right back into that fountain to be honest.

Harry stepped up to where Louis was perched on the concrete, and watched as Louis registered his approaching steps.

“Hi,” Harry said, trying his best at that thing called nonchalance he’s never quite mastered.

“Hi,” Louis echoes, eyebrow arched, staring.

“Um, so there’s a reason I came over here.”

“What have I done now?” Louis sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Nothing,” Harry shook his head, frowning. “I was just... I was wondering whether you were doing anything this Saturday?”

“Why?” Louis drawled suspiciously.

“Well, I thought we could go somewhere.” Louis was staring at him like he’d just peeled his face off and revealed that he was actually the alien he always thought he was.

Louis was quiet an excruciating length of time, furrowing and unfurrowing his brows, staring at his phone and pursing his lips together before settling his intimidating pretty blue eyes back on him.

Alright so it probably wasn’t that long but when Louis did finally answer, Harry wished he hadn’t.

“Can’t Saturday. I’ve got a gig. I’m seeing The Script with a mate?” Louis said slowly. His voice sounded a little unsteady, mild and careful, like he was actually aware of hurting Harry’s feelings or something else as ridiculous as that.

Harry’s heart fell out of his bum anyway.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Louis squinted up at him in the sunshine, a forceful breeze ruffling up the leaves on the ground by their Converse sneakers.

“No worries. Um, hope you have a good time at the gig, then,” Harry rushed out and away from Louis, who had his mouth parted to speak, and shifted his bag that weighed a ton higher over his shoulder, and practically ran home, dumped his bag to the floor and heaved his lanky self onto his bed, shoving his face into his pillow, blindly reaching for the remote for his stereo.

 _Nevermind, I’ll find someone like you_ , Adele’s voice bellowed from the speakers, hearing his sister’s irate screaming at him to turn it the fuck down.

He went with Gemma on that Saturday, catching a fleeting glimpse of Louis at the front of the queue with some guy with blonde hair, feeling wretched and jealous and just generally hopeless, praying Louis didn’t notice him.

So, yeah.

Harry never repeated that story, and things with Louis continued to be frustratingly hostile, only the odd quiet moment ever festering between them before both boys looked away again.

“What was it then?” Louis asks, confused, turning to Harry, eyes wide and questioning. 

“It was, um... The Script,” Harry answers reluctantly.

Louis gapes. “The Script?” he repeats.

Before he can say anything more the presenter is wrapping up the game and congratulating them on their winnings, £15,000. Which is amazing, brilliant, but Harry couldn’t care less about that right now, not when Louis looks like a deflated, crestfallen puppy.

They have to act overwhelmed though obviously and the music swells and confetti is unleashes and Holly wraps up the recording, reading off the auto-cue and looking down Camera 1. 

Once they've shaken hands with the crew and left the building to climb into a taxi, Harry grabs Louis' hand.

“How did I not know your first concert was The Script?” Louis says, seeming small, face disappointed, squeezing his hand back. It's amazing how much Louis has changed towards Harry in the last month, gone are the scathing looks, replaced by soft, lingering stares that make Harry feel like he's high as a kite.

“It doesn’t matter. You can easily cover your rent now! You should be pleased, Lou! I am,” he smiles, shaking his hand about and in the air, grinning.

Louis manages a small smile. "Yeah, at least I'm not going to kicked of me flat, I suppose," he mutters. 

"Why aren't you more happy?" Harry's smile falters. "We won."

"I am," Louis lies. 

They don't speak for the rest of the ride back to the hotel.

**

March turns into April and as Harry expected, things to start to change, pull back, if you will, much to his withering heart’s dismay, already hanging by a smidgen of a thread.

It started pretty much as soon as they got back to campus. Louis seemed unsure of his movements, of his touches, schooling the way he often instinctively reached out for Harry’s waist or the small of his back, just as Harry will impulsively grab for Louis’ wrist. He hovered, hesitating, and kept his hands to himself, choosing not to initiate kisses either, though he did return whatever Harry gave him quite enthusiastically.

The night they came home, they were in the pub, celebrating their winnings unbeknownst to the rest of the guys, the music loud and pretentious, and approaching peak time, the usual hipster types and hairspray saturated bodies crowded round the front of the bar. Harry pulled him in close in a corner of the pub, the lighting dim and moody, Louis’ face highlighted in shadows, hands resting on either side of Louis’ waist as he ducked in for another lingering slide of his lips. “We were so awesome today. You were right. We smashed it,” he grinned against his mouth, sated and _happy_.

“I was thinking we should still split it, yeah? £7,500 each, right?” 

“Well done, Lou. You can divide,” he smirked. Louis gave him an unimpressed look. “But I already told you in the taxi, I don’t want anything. Keep it. You need it, don’t you? I’m fine. Get that rent paid at last,” he smiled.

“No, Harry, I want us to split it. We both won it.”

“And I’m saying it doesn’t matter.” Harry silenced him with another kiss. “Anyway...” he took a deep breath. This was it. He was going to ask the question. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh, yeah?” Louis looked up, brows pinching. “What’s that?”

“Um. What are we?” Harry said sheepishly, eyes watching Louis closely.

Louis stiffened in his hold. “What do you mean?” he laughed, albeit a tad humourless.

Harry suddenly felt a coldness in his chest. “Like, us? I guess I want to know what we’re labeling this as?” Harry tried to keep his voice steady, even.

Louis pressed his lips together. “I don’t know.” A heavy pause. “I thought we already did?”

“What?” Harry said, frowning. “When?”

“At my mum’s? We’re friends now, and we make each other feel good now and then," Louis said slowly, seeming confused, or unconvinced? Maybe Harry was imagining it. 

“Louis, we’ve been sleeping together,” Harry reminded him, though he didn’t know why that was needed.

“And? So, we’ve been having sex. All kinds of sex. What are you getting at, Harry?” he said, but not unkindly. 

“I just,” Harry said, uselessly, letting go of Louis’ hips. “I thought we could... go out?”

“Got out?" Louis stared. "Together? Go out together?” Louis repeated, voice odd, unblinking.

Harry nodded, frustrated eyes prickling with moisture, cheeks burning, knowing that a disaster was imminent and Harry was about to get his heart stepped on, but then someone strolled over, someone artsy and tall with dark hair, interrupting the slowly morphing nightmare.

“Louis? Louis Tomlinson?” said an arrogant male voice from behind Harry.

He watched Louis glance over his shoulder and his face cloud into a formidably grim expression. “I’m in the middle of something,” he said icily.

“Don’t you remember me? We were in the middle of something once upon a time too,” he slurred, clearly drunk. An aggressively forward drunk.

“Do you mind?” Louis snapped.

Harry frowned deeper, turning around when the guy kept on persistently bothering Louis.

“Did you not hear him? Go the fuck away,” Harry shouted, getting up in the guy’s space.

“You go the fuck away,” the man said back. 

After than juvenile response, Harry was officially irritated and to make matters worse, he heavily alluded to having slept with Louis before, crowding his space and touching him inappropriately, to which Harry snapped.

He punched him.

Harry has never hit someone before in his life, but he was kicked out immediately and stumbled onto the pavement in his heeled boots, on the verge of tears, and not only because his knuckles were bleeding and stung like hell.

“Okay, what the fuck was that?” Louis demanded.

Harry rubbed his hands over his eyes, remembering his grazes too late, exhaustion and embarrassment and heartbreak washing over him in waves. “I’m sorry. I just snapped,” Harry said quietly.

“Harry, you completely overreacted. I can take care of myself!”

“I know you can,” Harry insisted. A sense of dread came over him as he watched Louis turn away, face pained, eyes tracking a thought Harry couldn’t get to.

“Look, we won the show. I can pay my rent and for the next few more months too. You can pay off some of your student debt, or buy a car? Buy your families’ Christmas presents early, I don’t know...” he trailed off, watching Harry with sad eyes. “You did me a favour. It’s done now. We don’t need to pretend anymore," he said, forlorn.

“I’m not pretending,” Harry whispered, unsure if Louis heard him as he walked away. Then he stopped, turned around and Harry’s heart almost sprung out of his chest with hope.

“You don’t need me,” Louis said quietly, face grim.

“I do. I do need you,” Harry practically begged.

“You’ve got lots of friends. You don’t need any more, do you?”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“Right,” Louis said, flat, and began walking away.

But that wasn’t what he meant.

Harry skulked back home, but not before stopping at his regular spot in the courtyard, curling up on his bench and longingly looking at the oak tree, imagining his initials in with Louis'. 

Louis'.

Harry burst into tears, cursing himself for not stopping to get some alcohol to drown himself with.

He knew exactly what had happened.

Harry Styles has fallen in love with Louis Tomlinson.

**

Everyone finds out about the show eventually. It airs a month later and people naturally start asking questions when they see it, confused that Harry and Louis haven't been seen together for weeks. Louis relents and tells everyone everything. Most of their friends are crushed for some reason. Don't even register the fact they won money or anything, but are instead fixated on the fact that they both lied about their relationship for a game show. One that they were utterly convinced was real. Jade actually cried when she realised Louis wasn't joking. She rang Harry in tears, complaining she'd already designed her bridesmaid dress.

So he stays pretty much holed up in his dorm, save for venturing outside for his lectures, not being able to face people's outraged questioning. He groans when Niall pokes at him over his covers, buried and miserable, hopelessly, madly in love with someone who doesn't love him back. Ed even came round, pity in his eyes as he suggested Harry write a song or a poem to win Louis over, insisting he was wrong about them and that he's never seen two people more right for each other, which was a nice surprise to hear from him, but it made Harry sob for the eight time that day. Ed awkwardly hugged him, Harry drenching his t-shirt with his salty tears as Ed patted his back and let him cry on his favourite Stones shirt.

God, he was being pathetic. Pathetically lovesick. But he's suffering the first and only heartbreak of his life. Give him a break.

Romance sucks. Love sucks. Louis sucks.

No, he doesn't. He loves Louis, and he misses him so much his head could explode. Oh, god. Here come the tears again.

"Right, get up," Niall says, whipping the duvet off his head. "Louis' been asking about you every fucking time I see him and I've had enough of your shit. Sort it out, now." Niall actually sounds scary for once.

"No, I can't," he whines. "He doesn't feel the same as me," Harry whispers wretchedly, burrowing back under the sheets. His pillow used to smell of Louis' shampoo. The scent's gone now. 

"Did you tell him?" 

"Tell him?" Harry sniffs, 

"Did you tell Louis you love him?"

"No..."

"Why the fuck not?"

"There's no point," Harry grumbles petulantly. "Now leave me here to die in peace."

Niall groans in frustration. "Talk to him. Or maybe let him inside the next time he knocks on the door." Then he stops, launches himself on top of Harry and hugs him to the point of suffocation. "Love you, mate. Louis loves you too, you know." Harry groans. "He's just being a silly knob, like you're being one now." He kisses the top of his head and closes the door behind him.

Harry still doesn't move.

That is until there's a brash knock at the door. 

He reluctantly heaves himself off his bed, duvet around his shoulders like a cape and opens the door, heart falling out somewhere near his arse.

Louis stands in front of him, face etched in a mixture of nervousness, disappointment, and a hint of hurt smudged around the edges of his blue, blue eyes that make Harry’s heart leap in his chest at the possibility they could still be together. His small hands are covered by the too long sleeves of his pale blue, almost grey cotton jumper and Harry can’t help but notice it makes his eyes sparkle more, standing out irresistibly in a sea of tan, golden skin and light bronze hair, unstyled and ruffled. It’s a mess, like how his bed head always looks when he finally emerges from underneath his duvet. Perhaps he’s not even been awake that long. The simple thought makes Harry’s heart constrict inside his chest at the realisation it’s been so long since Harry was allowed to see it.

"You look terrible," Louis says, matter-of-factly. 

"Thanks, babe," Harry grumbles.

“You haven’t been answering my calls,” Louis says, face crestfallen, “or my texts,” but his tone is sharp. "It's been a month since I've seen you, Harry."

"You said you didn't want any more friends!" Harry protests, irritation surging through him.

"I didn't mean it! I was... my head was all over the place," he says, apologetic and small. "But I've had time to think. I'm not confused anymore, and I'm sorry I made you feel like I didn't care," he says quietly. "If I was hot then cold or something, it was just because I was scared? Of where things were headed between us and I wasn't sure if... if you were feeling the same things I was."

"Well some better communication might have been helpful," Harry snaps.

Louis' face is hard.

“Everytime I’ve been to your dorm you don’t answer the door. You haven’t been coming to the pub lately, at least not when I’m there. You look away when I look at you in the halls. You’re avoiding me. Why?” he demands, voice catching.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Louis says firmly.

Harry’s eyes sweep over Louis’ parted lips. He diverts his gaze quickly. “Have you told your mum it was fake yet?”

Louis’ silent a few beats. “No... not yet.”

Harry stares, frowning, and maybe hoping. “Why not?” 

“Why have you been avoiding me, Harry?” Louis asks again instead, softer, taking a step forward.

When Harry doesn’t answer, he takes a another step closer, eyes imploring as they search Harry’s face closely, too closely, and Harry feels bare, exposed, like his heart is literally laying in Louis’ palms as he clutches it with all his might, Harry on tenterhooks, wondering which way this is going to go if he just lays it all on him.

If he tells him the truth.

“Louis.”

“What do you want, Harry?” Louis sighs.

“I don’t know—”

“Yes you do. Stop saying you don’t know!” Louis shouts, hands in fists at his sides.

“But I don’t! I don’t know anything! All I know is when I’m not with _you_ , nothing else makes sense."

Louis stares, eyes widening. 

“Only you make sense to me. You used to make no sense to me at all. You confused the life out of me. I never knew where I stood with you. You'd glare at me like you wanted to hit me over the head with a shovel, and then you'd be staring like you wanted to rip my clothes off." Louis makes a noise that sounds like a laugh. "You drove me up the fucking wall, Louis. I couldn’t stand you, the way you could get such a reaction out of me with every single thing you did or said... But now,” Harry pauses, momentarily lets his eyes fall closed, “you’re all I understand, Louis. You’re the only thing that makes sense. You're... you're my favourite person,” he says wetly.

Louis’ jaw sets. For one terrifying moment, he thinks that’s it. Louis hates him again. Louis’ eyes flit back up to his, his gaze blank, feigning nonchalance as he crosses his arms. “How do you expect me to respond to this?”

Harry's mouth quirks. “Are you quoting Sally Albright?”

“Well, not completely. You didn’t say the line before that did you?” he smirks.

“No, those words were all mine," Harry says, earnest, lips fully upturning.

Louis sighs, face softening, shaking his head. “I hate you."

Harry beams at him, bright and dazzling, his cheeks stretching so wide he fears it actually might crack, that dull ache finally starting to thaw and spread warmth through his limbs to the tips of his toes. 

He's so in love.

"I love you," Harry blurts out.

A silent beat.

"Do you?" 

Harry nods, smiling on a sniff. "I love you so much, Louis. So much, I don't know what to do with it. Have done for a while now, actually."

Louis stares at him with glassy eyes.

"You look like an idiot right now," he deadpans before his face breaks into a wide, elated grin. He takes off Harry's duvet and lets it fall to the floor, leans in close, winding his arms around Harry's neck. Harry can't contain his joy, just continues to stare and beam and watch Louis, tummy doing somersaults. "But you're my idiot. And I love you too," he whispers.

"You do?" Harry says, choked, overwhelmed. 

"Harry, I've been bloody obsessed with you for the last ten years. Has it really not been obvious?" he says, cheeks flushing. "God knows when I started falling for you exactly. I guess it might have been subconsciously why I went out of my way to annoy you when we were younger, and to be fair, every day since," he chuckles sheepishly. "I'm really sorry about that, by the way," he grins. "But I guess I didn't realise I actually fancied you properly until that day we met again at college. And you know, you'd, well... Then, you were all I could think about. Just didn't know how to go about it. I was useless."

"We both were," Harry smiles. "So you quite literally became a human version of that meme, "I don't know how to flirt so I have to kill him" instead?" Harry giggles.

"Basically, yeah," Louis laughs. "I'm sorry for being such a dickhead," he says earnestly. "I was just worried that I was the one so fucking in love and you weren't, and I suppose I wasn't brave enough to put my feelings on the line first."

"Well, I'm not sure how on earth you could have thought that I wasn't—"

"You're not as easy to read as you think you are, you know," Louis protests. 

"—but I was in a very similar predicament too, so I know how you feel," Harry smiles. God, he's so in love that he feels almost perpetually high. And happy. So _happy_. "You were such a shit to me," Harry smirks.

"Yeah, well, you gave it right back!"

"I was defending myself!"

Louis rolls his eyes and pulls him closer. "Harry Styles, I love you. Will you be my _real_ boyfriend?" he asks, coy and eyes aglow with love, Harry knows now.

Harry giggles into his mouth and kisses Louis senseless, cradling his face gently in his hands, his cheeks slightly rough from stubble. "You look a bit like a zombie."

Louis hits him lightly. "I couldn't sleep without you, could I? You're quite the human pillow, Harold."

"Aww, baby," he grins. "Well, you still you look unbelievably cute even with the dark circles, and you're welcome to sleep with me whenever you like," he coos.

"You're sickening," Louis narrows his eyes, then beams at him, completely unabashed. "Wait. That last question we had on the show..." Louis begins, shifting as he cups Harry's face back. "Why didn't you say anything about The Script being your first gig?" he frowns.

Harry presses his lips together. "Do you remember when I asked you if you wanted to do something with me that time? When we were still at college. A few weeks after we, you know," Harry smirks. "That night."

"That night we almost go it on?" Louis matches Harry's smirk, his face evening out when he locks eyes with Louis.

"Well, um. I'd bought tickets for their gig on that Saturday." He watches as realization dawns on Louis' face, eyes widening and mouth falling open.

"Harry," Louis whispers. 

"I wanted to ask you if you'd come with me. But then you told me you were already going with someone else, so," Harry shrugs, tries to smile, but instead nuzzles Louis' cheek, nosing at the tepid, soft skin.

Louis hugs Harry, swings his arms around his back and pulls him down to his warm, smaller body, squeezing him tight. "Harry," he murmurs in his ear. Harry closes his eyes, breathing him in. A wonderful boy who loves Harry too. Louis pulls back slightly, cheeks pink and voice affected. Harry's chest lurches. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have backed out with that random kid I went with like a shot. I don't even remember his name! I wasn't even going with him yet at that point." Louis stares at the ground. "When you asked me if I was doing anything, the thought of taking you crossed my mind, yeah, but." Louis sighs. "I don't know why I didn't just... ask." Louis looks up at him with sad eyes. And no. Now's not the time for regret or sadness or what if's. Harry's got Louis now. And Louis' got Harry. They can go to as many gigs as they want now and make them special, just for them.

"It doesn't matter. Not like I said anything anyway. I just said, 'somewhere'," he smiles. "It's my fault for being vague."

"No, it's mine for being too scared," Louis says quietly. "I'm such an idiot."

Harry kisses him, chaste and lazy. "I'll buy tickets for Coldplay and this time you're coming with me, capiche?" Harry feigns a deep frown, pouting.

"Shut up," Louis giggles, giving him a playful, tame shove. "So," he says after a moment, "are you my boyfriend, then?"

"Yes, we're boyfriends, Lou."

"Good," Louis whispers, eyes crinkled and brighter than the stars. 

"Good," Harry beams, as Louis kicks the door shut and they fall onto Harry's bed, pulling the duvet over their heads and clutching each other close, as Louis' hands do some exquisite wandering, and if Harry slurs the fact he's already picked out the names of their future kids, well, Harry can't be blamed.

**

The russet drenched bark of the oak tree stands strong and versed, looming in the middle of the courtyard, the wind softly bristling its crisp, green leaves, housing two very important sets of initials, a mark of soulmates, some might say.

H.S + L.T

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Ahhh! Thank you so much for reading lovelies and any feedback is so appreciated!! Here's the [tumblr](http://curlsandlashes.tumblr.com/post/150074806166/loves-on-the-line-is-that-your-final-answer-by) post :) xxx

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr account i've barely used is curlsandlashes :) (I have a main blog that I'm always on, but I'm not sure I'm brave enough to expose my ao3 just yet lol)


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